Falling Angels
by notmanos
Summary: Post X2: Violence decimates the XMen, and when Logan investigates, he finds ties to a recurring, personal enemy. But what are they really after? And Bob searches for Jean or what's left of her.
1. Part 1

Disclaimer:The character of Logan & all X Men is also owned by 20th Century Fox and Marvel Comics.No copyright infringement intended. Bob is still mine (although he denies he belongs to anyone ;*D) . 

N.B.: Takes place shortly after the "X2" movie, and "Dia de los Muertos". 

**** 

Falling Angels  
___ 

1 

    "Ah shit," Brendan Chambers cursed, hastily spitting out his cigarette and crushing it out under the sole of his sneaker. He just knew it - one of the kids must have had eyes in the back of his head. He bet it was that Kjell guy - didn't he always seem to be wearing a hat? 

They had gone on some sort of stupid ass trip to Chinatown - "cultural enrichment" or some such shit; they were always shoving these lame ass 'field trips' down their throats - and Matt figured they could get lost and steal a smoke, and maybe have some Peking duck. Well, Matt wanted the Peking duck - Brendan was a vegetarian. But the Asian beer he mentioned sounded good. 

Matt looked past Brendan's shoulder and rolled his eyes. "Fucking hell, it's Captain Buzzkill too." He hastily stubbed out his cigarette on the brick wall of the alley they were loitering in, and put the butt in his coat pocket for smoking later on. Matt was wearing his suede driving gloves, the one that almost matched his worn brown leather jacket, and Bren was one again taken by how handsome he was. 

When he first met Matt back at dreary old Milton High, he was intrigued by his strangely exotic looks: his downturned greenish brown eyes, his pale carmel colored skin, his mildly wavy mahogany brown hair, his full lipped, mobile mouth. In spite of his white bread name - Matt Parker - he was actually, in his own words, "a Korean Jamaican Puerto Rican American". An Army brat, his parents split up when he was young, and his Korean mother married his white step-father, who Matt referred to derisively as "Frosty the Snowman". Not that Matt liked his father, who he hadn't seen since he'd left his mother - it was just Matt liked few people as a general rule, and the older they were, the more he held them in a vague sort of contempt. It was possible it was just teen surliness, or just Matt trying on a toxic 'tude to prove how cool he was. He wasn't a poseur, but after having heard the tales of his life, Bren knew he'd never had it that bad. At least he had a mother who was willing to claim him, and wasn't behind bars - Bren had been in the foster home system since his mother went away for drug trafficking ( it was a trumped up charge ) when he was seven years old. ( She was still doing time - she wouldn't be out for another eleven years. Some murderers didn't do that long. ) Some of the homes he stayed in were okay, and some were nightmarish; most fell somewhere in between, and no matter how nice they tried to be to him ( when they bothered ), he never felt like he belonged anywhere, or that anyone gave a damn whether he lived or died. And for all Matt's tough posturing, he had never been homeless either - Bren ran away whenever he could, and one time, when he was fourteen, he lived for three and a half weeks on the streets of Philadelphia before the cops caught up with him. He wasn't proud of it, but he could take care of himself better than most of the pampered posies who lived at Xavier's. 

He wondered if being half-demon helped. 

Of course, from the stuff Bob had given him, he'd found out that he was a pretty lame demon. Brachens were stronger than you average bear, sure, but they were "peace loving" and preferred to shun Human contact as well as conflicts. So he wasn't a cool demon, like Bob, he was just ... what? A misfit? Great. Well, at least his dad - whoever he was - was a misfit too: instead of completely shunning Humans, he obviously must have fucked one. 

"What have you been told about staying with the group?" Captain Buzzkill - also know as Scott Summers - snapped, storming down the street towards them. Although the subtleties of expression were lost when the eyes were hidden, Bren had learned to read Summers by his jaw. Clenched was really bad; semi-clenched was typical; loose meant he'd been replaced by a pod person. And right now it was ultra-clenched; it looked like he was trying to crack shelled walnuts with his molars. Not good. 

Matt gave him his sexy pouty glare, which someone had once called his "James Dean" look, except Bren didn't know who he was. Matt thought it was that guy who made breakfast sausages, but that made no sense. "We just wanted to have a smoke." 

"You're too young to smoke," he spat back. "Where did you get those cigarettes?" 

Matt jerked his head towards the back of the street. "7-11. Why, wanna get your own?" 

Bren looked away and rolled his eyes. Ever since Ms. Grey died, Summers had been even more uptight and more surly, if that was even possible. It was like he blamed them for what happened to her, or was trying to cover up the fact that he spent all his free time moping. He'd been so rigid before he seemed like an automaton; nowadays, it was like he was dead. When she died, something in him must have too. And as such, Bren didn't understand why Matt had to bait him - it was just asking for trouble. 

Summers just stood there, arms crossed over his chest, jaw muscles working like he was chewing those walnuts. "You just got off probation, Mr. Parker. Are you really that eager to go back on?" 

Probation was the penal name for what was essentially grounding, and Bren honestly couldn't believe they could get grounded at a school, but Xavier's was hardly a normal school, was it? Matt rolled his eyes, and Bren got the bad feeling that he was about to say something smart ass and unnecessary. He tried to warn him off with a look, but Matt didn't even glance at him. "Oh, come on, Scott - you know you just want me alone. Don't think I haven't noticed the way you look at me," Matt sneered. 

Matt was convinced Summers was either a homosexual in denial, or so hetero and repressed the flash of a tit would make him hopelessly flustered. So, at every turn, he liked to mock Summers about his supposed sexuality, and of course - if he was gay - he had to be attracted to Matt, because who wasn't? Bren didn't think Summers was gay - he was way, way too uptight - and sometimes Matt's own arrogant vanity was the most unattractive thing about him. 

Summers, as always, didn't take the bait. He always acted like Matt hadn't implied anything. Hadn't he figured out by now that only encouraged him? "I guess you have another two weeks probation to get corrective lenses, Mr. Parker." 

He snorted derisively. "Like I even need any of this shit. I'm seventeen, pendejo - I can do what I want." 

"Like be shipped back home to your parents," Summers countered coldly. "You are a runaway." 

That was the wrong thing to say. Matt glowered at him, his own jaw muscle twitching like an electrified snake beneath the skin. "And when I tell them I was buggered at freak school by you bunch?" 

"Breaker, be cool," Bren interjected, unable to believe that Matt - for no reason other than he was bored - was going to try and pick a fight with Summers. Breaker was the nickname Matt had thought up for himself, because that's what he did - if his bare hand touched anything, whatever it was broke. Didn't matter if it was a dish, a Human arm, or a titanium steel vault - they all shattered like glass when he brushed them. It was only his hands, though. Ms. Grey had been studying that - well, before she died - and it had to do with something in the palm of his hand, and being able to emit an obscure type of "quantum" energy that severed all bonds at the molecular level. He had no idea what it meant, but it sounded damn good. 

Unlike the nickname. Matt thought it sounded cool, but Bren thought it was kind of dopey. They were still trying to come up with one for him, but what did he have? His Human mutation was pretty lame ass - an eidetic memory, which meant he could remember everything in perfect detail, even things he would have rather forgotten ( like his mother being hauled off by the cops, or being beaten and burned with an iron by Mr. D'Amico, foster father number four ). His demon half ... well, that was no great shakes either. He got kind of leathery bluish green skin covered with small red spikes, and his strength increased to five times over normal, which was probably the best part of the deal. Still, did he have to let himself look so damn freakishly ugly to get there? Red eyes were bad enough, but at least he could hide those with sunglasses. He didn't like to "turn demon", even though he'd seen worse at Xavier's, like that new blue guy. Shit, and he was really religious too, wasn't he? Luckily, only Xavier, Summers, Munroe, Rogue, and the late Grey knew he was only half Human. Oh, and since Bob knew, Logan probably knew too. He had a feeling no one was going to tell the blue guy any time soon. Luckily, he was away right now, visiting his family in Germany or looking for them or something like that, so Bren didn't have to worry about someone spilling the beans. He wondered, if he did find out, if he'd come at him with a cross or something. 

Matt was pressing him to go with Spike, as he did have spikes when he went demony ( well, Matt thought it was part of his mutation - he still hadn't told him the complete truth ), and that was the name of that cool bounty hunter in Cowboy Bebop, so he considered it. But he knew he'd feel stupid being called Spike, and it wasn't like his spikes even did anything, so he quickly discarded it. He'd never been able to think up a second possibility. Maybe he should just go with the truth and call himself Demon, and hope everyone bought his " 'cause I'm a demon in the sack" explanation. 

Matt ignored him, and he didn't really know if Summers had heard him or not. "Maybe a month on probation will help curb that attitude of yours," Summers said, still glaring at Matt from behind his visor. 

Matt snorted derisively. "Fuck you." 

"Two months," he replied icily. 

Bren saw that Matt was actually trying to work a hand free of his gloves. "Whoa, hey," he said, grabbing Matt's arm and pulling him back from Summers. Matt always had a bad temper - it was what got him expelled from Milton, and what his parents kicked him out of the house about - they were all just lucky Matt hadn't broken a retaining wall on his way out the door. "This ain't worth it, okay? Look, we're sorry. We haven't gotten out of that place like forever, and we were bored troopin' around with the kiddies. We just wanted to get some Chinese food and chill. That's pretty cultural, right? We were gonna come back." 

"Don't make excuses," Matt said angrily, yanking his arm out of his grasp. "We can do whatever the fuck we want - we ain't prisoners." 

"He isn't, but you are," Scott replied just as hotly. "If you can't abide by the rules, Matthew, you will have to leave." 

"Great - watch me go now," Matt shot back. 

"What's going on here?" Munroe asked, joining them. She already had her arms crossed over her chest. 

What a weird bunch. He wondered what they must have looked like - if he could have an aerial view of this unseasonably warm corner of Chinatown, would he instantly grok they were all freaks? The guy in the funny glasses, the black woman with white hair, the good looking mixed race kid in driving gloves, and the lanky geek with red eyes. Yeah, who else could they be but freaks? 

They weren't Asian, and that was enough to make them stand out on this street. Everything else was just emphasizing their otherness, like putting big old pimp hats on elephants in downtown Diddlyfuck, Iowa, so they would "blend in" better. The funny thing was, with all the signs in foreign languages and brightly colored awnings, the markets with their open stalls of colorful, strange produce, the smell of cooking on the air, layered with cigarettes and exhaust ... Bren actually liked this place. It was just a shame his alienness didn't stop at simply appearing white. 

"This dickhead is giving me shit," Matt snapped, gesturing vaguely at Summers. "Just 'cause he ain't gettin' any anymore." 

"Hey," Munroe said, brows knitting together angrily. "You don't talk that way about anyone, especially a teacher." 

Matt snorted, and Bren considered just slugging him in the back of the head. If he went demon he could probably knock him out before he could try and break something on him. He didn't want to hurt him ... well, no, okay. Matt was a good kisser and could be a hell of a lot of fun, but there were many times Bren just wanted to smash his head through the floorboards. The problem was he knew he was cool, and that was always fatal. "I don't have to put up with this," Matt replied disdainfully. "Just 'cause this asshole let his girlfriend get killed - " 

Summers grabbed Matt violently by the collar of his jacket, and yanked him close to his face. "What did you say?" He snarled. 

Matt darted a loosely gloved hand towards Summers, but Bren grabbed it and held it back as, on the other side, Munroe grabbed Summers's arm. "Let him go, Scott," she said, in her sternest voice. 

"Stop being a pussy, Bren," Matt snapped, trying to pull his hand free. 

It was such an odd and tense situation, a Human tug of war, that when something exploded through Munroe's chest, and then Summers's, it seemed completely unreal. Even though the blood splattered on him and Matt, hot and metallic, it still seemed like one of them was imagining this happening. But since when did imagination involve so much real blood? 

Munroe was wearing a white shirt, so Bren watched with horrified fascination as it quickly turned red, spilling down her front like watercolor on a canvas. Both she and Summers had slack, disbelieving expressions on their faces, like they couldn't buy this either. Her eyes went briefly white, like she was trying to call something up, but not nearly in time - her eyes closed and she pitched forward. 

Matt had stumbled back in shock as soon as Summers lost his grip on him, and Bren had let him go in surprise. He hit the wall of the alley and just stared at them, hazel eyes wide with horror. The blood spattered on his face made it look as if he had been shot too. 

It looked like Summers tried to catch Munroe, but he couldn't stay on his own feet, and they both collapsed to the pavement. Bren hadn't moved out of the way, so Summers kind of fell on him, and Bren reflexively tried to catch him, but hell, he was a wimp - he was only strong when he demoned out. As a result, he fell on his ass, Summers pinning his legs to the ground. 

Crows that had been gathering on the rooftops, waiting for the food and shiny objects people discarded on the street, exploded into the air, black feathers fluttering down like soot, and Bren guessed there must have been at least one gun shot, but it never reached his ears. Across the street, on the roof of a tall brick building that looked like some kind of boarding house, he saw dark movement, sudden and fleeting, and he thought it could have been a crow. Sure, some big ass, walking crow. 

He was trying to look everywhere at once, see if someone else was going to start shooting at them, but it seemed the shooting was done for the moment ... and had anyone noticed? People seemed to be strolling by casually on the street across the way, and no one had seen or heard a thing. A silencer? Did someone use a silencer? 

Summers struggled to get up, and the best he could do was partially prop himself up on his hands. Bren scuttled away from him, the advise of a hooker he once knew ringing in his ears : "If they ever start shootin' and you can't get away, hit the ground and play dead. If you ain't their target, they don't check." But what did he do if he was their target? 

Summers must have been looking at him, as Matt was still frozen against the wall, hypnotized by the growing pool of blood. He was swallowing hard and often, and seemed to be struggling to stay propped up on his hands. "Get out - " He made a sort of gagging noise, and Bren knew fluid was filling his lungs before blood started to dribble from his mouth.  How lovely - he didn't know who James Dean was, but he knew the sound of blood filling someone's chest cavity. " - of here n - " 

He slumped to the ground, and Bren was pretty sure he was just resting his forehead on the pavement, trying to gather  
his forces, but then his entire body sagged, and he flattened out with a ragged, liquid sigh. Bren figured getting out of here was a good idea, but this was a dead end alley - a perfect place for target practice. Shit, who would be shooting at them, and why? 

"Matt," he said, wondering if they could use their powers somehow. But none of them had a projecting power, like Summers or Munroe; Matt could just break whatever he could touch, and he ... well, he could turn ugly. How perfectly useless. 

"What the fuck?" Matt asked, sounding almost anguished in his shock. "What the fuck?!" 

"Get down!" He snapped, suddenly angry at him. Mister Tough Guy was useless in a real emergency, wasn't he? How fucking typical. Why couldn't he be like Logan? He ran towards danger, showing he was either incredibly ballsy, incredibly stupid, or both; either way, Bren figured he loved him, even though he didn't really know him at all. But hey, he had some wicked guns on him. 

Why couldn't he do that? He wasn't even Human, not really. So what was he so afraid of? Why didn't he just charge into the fray and go after them ... whoever they were? Maybe he was the kind of demon that was bulletproof, so why didn't he just do it? What was he so afraid of? 

He reached for Summers, figuring he had a cell phone or something on him, and only then did he realize he'd demoned out - his skin was bluish green and leathery, and the back of his hand bristled with those useless, stubby red spikes. That happened sometimes, when he got really nervous or excited; his demon side just popped out. Maybe it was adrenaline fueled. And maybe he would be protected from ricochets in this form. 

He searched Summers's coat for a cell, and found something he thought might be one. When he pulled out his hand, he found it coated with blood up to the wrist, and he had to swallow back bile. It was funny, because he'd seen worse. While he was living on the streets, he once stumbled across the body of a junkie who'd o.d. 'd in an alley - he still had the needle stuck in his upper arm. He'd been dead for a while, and the rats were at him ... oh Christ, he really was going to barf if he kept remembering that. 

Bren saw he hadn't pulled out a cell phone, but one of those weird equivalents that Xavier gave his staff. It looked like a big, weird belt buckle, but as he examined it hastily, pressing everything and anything that could be a release catch, it seemed to pop open and bleep. It looked like a cell, only there didn't seem to be a keypad. Presumably, it just called Xavier. "Hey, uh, someone just shot Summers and Munroe, and I'm not sure if they're coming for us or not," he said, sounding remarkably calm ( well, to himself at least ). "They need an ambulance, and we need to get the fuck out of here." 

He was pretty sure he heard footsteps, and it was probably just someone on the street, but what if it wasn't? Did he want to die cowering on the ground? Well, he didn't want to die at all, but if he had to, he didn't want to be referred to as that "dick we found behind the garbage can".  He left the line open but put the phone down next to Summers, figuring that the line could be traced if he got killed violently in a second. 

He was so scared his stomach hurt, and he was sure he was probably shaking as he got to his feet, but maybe being a demon it didn't show as much. Well, he hoped. Bren took a deep breath and stepped past the bodies, Matt against the wall, and the ever growing puddle of blood. 

"What are you doing?" Matt hissed. 

Bren gestured for him to be quiet, and stood against the wall, right beside the corner. The sniper obviously wasn't on the roof anymore, as they'd have had several clear shots at him and Matt. Well ... right? Oh shit, he wasn't a sniper, how the fuck did he know?! 

He couldn't quite hear the footsteps over the pounding of his own thudding heart, but he allowed himself to believe, for a second, that they  only wanted Summers and Munroe - they didn't want anything to do with them. 

But why not kill shots? It was a ruthless thing to think - he blamed video games - but shit, if they were in position, they had clear shots: they could have blown their heads off. Why didn't they? Because they only wanted to wound them ... or disable them and take them alive. And what of him and Matt? Maybe they figured they'd run off, first chance they got. Or maybe they were considered negligible, a waste of expensive ammo. And perhaps they thought they were prepared to handle mutants. He wondered if the fact that he was much more than that would put a crimp in their plans. 

Man, he hoped so, or he was so fucking dead. 

He saw the shadow, and as much as he wanted to just stand there and hopefully blend into the brick, he made himself move, repeating in his mind, over and over: "I am a demon, and they are puny Humans. I am a demon and they are puny Humans." He figured if he did it enough, he might believe it. 

He saw a gun barrel, so he grabbed it and yanked the person holding it around, kicking them for good measure. He didn't aim high enough - he meant to hit the groin but got them in the thigh, and the man, who was wearing a long dark coat that hid his extensive body armor, didn't even fight him for the weapon, as it was a ruse. Before he could react, the man, using his free hand, jabbed him with a black box the approximate size and shape of a t.v. remote, only lacking buttons. Bren felt a tickle and a sting of electricity up his arm ... and then nothing more. Was that supposed to have done something? From the triumphant look on the man's face, yeah, it was. 

Brendan smashed a flattened palm into his face, and from the snap and warmth of blood, he guessed he broke his nose. He kicked the guy in the stomach, sending him flying back into a parked car, and he splayed back over the hood, losing his grip on the black thing. Belatedly, Bren realized he should have grabbed that thing. 

Another guy came at him from the side, but Brendan brought his elbow up, and while aiming for the face, caught him in the throat instead. It was a better shot, as he reeled back gagging, and Bren laughed, more nervous than elated - but hell, he was still alive, and these guys were chumps. "Die, puny Humans," he cackled, aware he was on the verge of hysteria. 

"I've seen one of those before," he heard a woman exclaimed, and looked up the street. 

He found an Asian woman, dressed in the same pseudo-bondage black body armor as the men, staring at him as she talked into something held in her hand - maybe a mini-phone, like Summers had. "We need a demon neutralizer, A-SAP. Repeat, we have a demon on site." 

He started towards her, wondering what the fuck a demon neutralizer was, and if he should be worried, when he was suddenly grabbed from behind. A thickly muscled armed closed around his neck, and he couldn't breathe. "Don't worry, I got the freak," the man said. His breath smelled of cigarettes and coffee. 

There was some way to toss them over your back, right? He'd seen it in movies dozens of times. As Bren struggled to move or dislodge the guy, who felt like he was made of stone, he heard a sickening crack, and the grip suddenly went slack. Bren pulled free of his arm, and as he turned, the man crumpled to the sidewalk, to reveal Matt standing there, bare hand still raised. His face was inordinately pale and wide eyed, and he still had blood splattered on him, but maybe he was starting to come out of his shock. 

He spun around to go after the woman who'd called for back up, but she wasn't there anymore. What was there was a small crowd, keeping its distance, and staring at him in horrified fascination. Jaded New Yorkers stunned into silence by the sight of ultra-freaky him. He could suddenly feel the eyes of everyone on all the streets upon him, vaguely heard a squeal of brakes followed by the crunch of metal and the tinkling of glass as two cars slammed into one another. He felt embarrassed, enraged, and ashamed all at once, and he hated every single fucking one of these people. "What, ain't you ever seen a demon before?!" He roared, making the nearest ones jump back as if hit with a cattle prod. 

"Bren," Matt said, alarmed, and he spun in time to see the black blur coming in fast from the corner of his eye. Matt had stepped back, and it was clear he was deferring the bulk of the fighting to him. Fine; maybe Matt would treat him better now. 

Full of hate and adrenaline, Bren managed to grab the guy attempting to tackle him before he could, and shoved him violently out into the street. The traffic hadn't stopped in both lanes, just the one, so the man was promptly hit by cab and launched into the air, sailing about fifteen feet down the way. He'd left a huge dent in the hood, which Bren noticed just before he heard the thud of the landing. 

"Fuck," Matt gasped, as Bren suddenly realized what he'd done. Had he just killed that guy? He didn't know - but he did know he had wanted to. 

The screams of sirens started to fill their ears, faint but growing, and he knew that his appearance had probably spurred the calls, not the gunshots. How funny was that? How fucking funny was that? Well, at least these people - whoever they were - weren't going to be able to collect Munroe and Summers, not with the cops buzzing around. 

Bren had to swallow back a lump in his throat, but could do nothing to stop the tears welling in his eyes. What kind of fucking demon was he? What kind of freak was he? 

"Brendan!" Matt shouted, as he darted out into the street. He managed to dodge the cars and run down an alley, which wasn't a dead end, but opened up into some vacant lots. 

He had no idea where he was going, he just knew he couldn't be there when the cops arrived, or even face Matt right now. Or any of them, any of the Humans, any of the muties - who were still closer to normal than he would ever be. 

Bren knew it was stupid, but he hoped maybe - if he ran long enough - he'd be able to outpace the demon inside him, and leave it behind for good. 


	2. Part 2

2 

    Logan could still hear the random booing as he got dressed in the back, and even after all this time, he couldn't help but chuckle. It bothered him a little that he got a charge out of being the source of so much enmity, but hell, why not? 

The promoter entered the room, rolling two of his five eyes. He was a demon he'd never heard of before - a T'Krit ( apparently pronounced like an insect noise ), and sort of resembled a potato with limbs. His attempt to cover up his strangely bulbous shape and clay like skin involved a loud Hawaiian shirt, khakis, a Panama hat, and - perhaps the worst sin of all - white deck shoes. All he needed was a Nikon hanging around his neck, and he'd have looked like any American tourist. Well, save for the pyramid of eyes ( one on top, the other four beneath in matching rows of two ) in the center of his forehead. Also, much like an animé character, he had no apparent nose. "You put on a hell of a show, Human, but you lied." 

"About what?" He wondered, pulling on his t-shirt. 

"You're somethin' of a celebrity in the underground circuit, ain't ya?" Bert - god knew why he chose that name for himself - said, his voice almost annoyingly nasal. "I did some checking after you beat the shit out of the Crimmins." 

"You didn't ask me for my resume," he pointed out. The Crimmins were a bit of a cheat, he thought - they were a type of "hive" demon that shared a brain, so there were three of them. Well, three identical bodies - all big, muscular, and dumb as a footstool - and they were the regional "champions" - or, at least they were. Now he was, although he was getting the idea his brief reign was very much over. 

Logan had no idea why he'd done this. No, that wasn't true - the money sounded nice ( a thousand bucks if you were the last man standing in the ending "Free For All" Brawl - of course he was, he had never doubted he would be ), and so did burning off some steam. It was a demon club ( it was called "Second Level", and it didn't take a genius to figure it out - he'd help take down Seventh Circle in New York, after all ), but unlike Seventh Circle, it was not some sleazy fly-by-night ( no pun intended ) operation - this was a franchised, slightly Yuppie - fied sleazy organization: it was all chrome and plastic, gel lights and fancy drinks that probably glowed in the dark, and were sweet enough to cause an instant case of diabetes. And there didn't appear to be a kill floor, which was a point in their favor. The fights were a weekly occurrence, held at one or another club ( there were, according to Bert, eight clubs in the U.S. and one in Canada - they hoped to expand to more states and provinces soon ), and beamed to the others on closed circuit television. Logan had already guessed who had recognized him, and from where. 

"No, but shit dude - the least you coulda been was honest with me. Brisley up in Vancouver recognized you; he said you're the Canadian bare knuckle champion." 

Brisley? Now there was a name. "I don't know about that. I was never given a sash." 

Bert glared at him, and that was quite an experience with five orange eyes. 

Logan sighed, and said, "Hey, they were all Humans. I didn't think it counted." 

"What about the fact that you were a good bet to win the "Ultimate Fighter" championship on Dis? Well, before half the island ended up under water." He replied, folding two of his arms across his chest.  He usually hid his other two arms inside his shirt when trying to pass for Human, but now they hung loose at his side. They both knew he was a demon, so why hide it? 

That was a surprise. "Oh, there were other survivors, huh? I didn't think almost champion counted either." 

Bert's five eyes continued to glare at him for a moment, then he sighed heavily and rolled them all. "This is precisely why I don't let Humans in the fights." 

"I thought it was 'cause they generally couldn't last." 

"That too." 

This was usually demon on demon fighting, but sometimes "half breeds" and mutants were let in, to "liven things up" and give the crowds "someone to root against". Hence all the booing he received. Also, someone threw a bowl of soy nuts against the cage after he won the big brawl, and he thought that was really uncool. Did they think edamame grew on trees? 

Only in California would you have toasted soy lobbed at you in a bar. 

Bert held out his third hand, and in it was a small but still impressive wad of cash. "Since you're a ringer, I don't suppose I have to tell you the drill, do I ?" 

"Never come back?" 

"Bingo." He gave Logan the cash, and he had to admit to himself it was hardly an "X-Man" sort of thing to beat the shit out of guys - Human or otherwise - for cash. But that was only one of his very good reasons to keep doing it, whenever the mood or need for money hit him. It was better than being a bartender or a pipeline worker, and he couldn't see accepting money from either Xavier or Bob - he did nothing for them, and he didn't need handouts. He pulled his own weight, or he didn't participate. 

"You're a nasty son of a bitch, you know that?" Bert said, as Logan pocketed his money and grabbed his leather jacket. 

He grunted an acknowledgement. "I've heard that a lot." 

"It's admirable in a Human." 

"Thanks ... I think." He left the "locker room" and headed out the back door, into the relentlessly bright sunshine and strangely dense air of Los Angeles. They had "day fights" to suit the "early risers" back on the East Coast, where most of the Second Levels were. It was a little disorienting, since he was used to fighting in grotty dives in the dead of night, but not all demons were nocturnal. And also, Second Level was apparently listed in the New York Stock Exchange, under the aegis of its parent company - they were demons trying to go mainstream legit. It was such a fucking weird idea he had no idea how he felt about it. He wondered if the really evil ones called them "sell outs". 

In spite of the heat, he kept his jacket on and sweated, and attracted the occasional strange look, but mostly from those camera toting tourists that Bert had inadvertently resembled - even he was not too strange for native Angelenos. 

A couple of blocks over, the gentrification gave way to a more slum like area, where the scars of the '90's riots still lingered, if only because no one was brave enough to come out here and fix them. Crowds thinned, tourists disappeared entirely, and the few people around gathered in menacing clots on the corners or lurked in shadowy doorways or alleys. He met all their eyes, waiting for another good fight, but he was known too well down here, and gave off too much of a "Come on, fuck with me" attitude: when they bothered to meet his gaze, they all looked away quickly, and pretended he wasn't there. No one wanted to fuck with him, and that was a damn shame. 

Well, maybe not. He'd beaten the shit out of enough dumb asses for now. All he wanted was a smoke and a beer, and maybe somebody pretty to look at. So why the hell was he headed towards the Way Station? 

At least Bob was back in Sydney. Knowing Hel, she wouldn't even let him up for air until three days from now, so at least he wasn't going to pop up and bug him any time soon. Still, it would have been nice to have some answers about that fireball thing - Bob told him he'd been unable to follow it, which was troubling. Bob seemed pretty troubled by it too. If he couldn't find it, what the fuck was it? 

He hoped Lau was on duty as he shoved open the door - which appeared like a boarded up husk held together by condemned signs to everyone else - and wasn't surprised by the wall of music and smells that hit him, followed by a chorus of sour groans from demons who were too hung over to care for the light, or just didn't like the light in principal. He wondered how the hungover were exactly coping with the Deftones. 

The door had barely swung shut behind him when he saw something flying straight towards his head. he caught it by pure reflex, and only after it was in his hand did he realize it was a cordless phone receiver. "Call for you," Lia snapped, returning to wiping some spilled cow's blood off the bar. 

He should have known - object flying at him equaled Lia behind the bar. "Gee, really?" He shot back. "I thought that was just my "welcome home" kiss." He brought the receiver up to one ear, and covered the other, hoping to block out some of "Rx Queen". "Yeah?" He figured it was Bob; maybe he'd finally figured out what that fire thing was. 

There was a pause before Xavier asked, honestly concerned, "Is everything all right there?" 

"Uh, yeah, it's just Lia," he said, wondering why Xavier was calling. It was bad news, wasn't it? It was always bad news. Lia gave him the finger for that comment, and he gave it back to her with a claw, since his hands were basically full. The horned demon at the bar jumped upon seeing it spring from his hand, quickly paid his tab, and left. He couldn't even pick a fight with a demon dumb ass anymore - how disappointing was that? "What's happened?" 

There was another pause, like he was considering denying it ( "No, Logan, I just called to see how you are. Still beating people up to make yourself feel better? Still finding solace in meaningless sex? Good for you!" ), but then he realized there really was no point. Perhaps he'd read his mind over the phone line. Could he do that? "Storm and Cyclops have been shot." 

Of all the things he expected him to say, that wasn't on the list. "What? By who?" 

"We aren't sure." 

"Are they okay?" 

"They're alive, and expected to recover," Xavier sighed, and only then did Logan realize he was tense. "But they won't be on their feet for a while. They're still operating on Scott's punctured lung." 

Logan winced. Having had both lungs punctured before, he knew how much that hurt, and what a fucking drama it was to get the tissue to reconnect and the lung to inflate once more. Of course, Scott's tissue reconnection wasn't going to happen that fast, not without outside help. A bad joke occurred to him - "I know the Boy Scout's a bit much, but shooting's uncalled for; a pistol whipping would have done." - but he knew enough not to say it. "Was anyone else hurt? When and where did this happen?" 

"Chinatown, about an hour ago, and no, no one else was hurt ... well, no one not involved. They appeared to have been targeted specifically." 

"Sniped in broad daylight, in a crowded section of New York, and no one saw anything?" That sounded not only really fucking bad, but suspiciously professional. Then he considered Xavier's addendum. "Storm and 'Clops got some of the guys before they went down?" 

"No, a student did - Brendan Chambers." 

That name was somehow familiar, but it took him a moment to place it. "Oh, uh, the demon kid?" 

"Yes. He happened to be there at the time, as did Matthew Parker." 

Brendan's friend or boyfriend or whatever the fuck he was. No matter - good for them. He hoped they killed the fucks. "The kids weren't hurt?" 

"No, not to our knowledge. Brendan ran off after the incident, and we have yet to find him, but Matthew doesn't believe he was hurt. Matthew was in shock, but seems otherwise all right, considering." He paused once more, before saying, "I believe the intention was to incapacitate Scott and Ororo, and perhaps capture them. The men found at the scene were wearing military caliber body armor and carrying paralyzers." 

Logan sat on the edge of an empty table and rubbed his eyes, letting the music blast the hell out of his right side eardrum. Oh fuck. "The Organization." 

"It would seem to be." 

"Didn't they get the memo? With their big cheese out of the picture, they don't exist anymore. The government got caught with their pants down, so they cut the funding." He then realized what he just said. "Officially. Fuck, is it even deeper than black ops now?" 

"It can't be ruled out at this point. But the assault in this manner is puzzling." 

"No, it isn't. They worked out the kinks of the last try - it's called testing the defenses, and it's a solid tactic. Evacuate the school, get everyone the fuck out of there, you included." He then considered that a moment. "Unless the intention is to get you to evacuate the school ... " 

"As good as you are, even you can't guess their motivations from there." 

"You were calling for Bob, weren't you?" 

"No, Logan, I was calling for you. I assumed you'd be safe where you are, but I thought it best to check." 

Safe with Bob, he meant. And yeah, sure, his orbit was the safest place, wasn't it? When you boiled it down, they'd never been able to come up with a counter measure that could neutralize him. And how could they? He was a god, after all. "Look, Bob's in Sydney, but I'll see if he can't get us over there - " 

"You don't need to." He replied, maddeningly reasonable. 

Logan felt like punching through the table. "They knew enough to take out Storm and Cyclops from a distance. They could be prepared for you too." 

"I'm sure they are. Mind scans of the injured men revealed they had already had them scrambled telepathically. I believe that girl - what was her name, Delerium? - was responsible." 

Logan wished he was surprised, but this was another instance of his jaded nature serving him far too well. "See? I have to rally the troops. You're in danger; the kids are in danger." 

"I'm not so sure about that. I was virtually alone here at the mansion at the time of the attacks. If they wished to attack me, and had the ability to do so, they could have then, and laid in wait for the others. But they chose that moment to attack Scott and Ororo. And if Delerium's the best telepath they have at the moment, they haven't a chance." 

Yeah, he knew that - Baldly could kick crazy girl's butt. But why else would they hit 'Clops and Storm, except for their being close to Xavier? "Is this revenge?" He wondered, aware he was grasping at straws. "Their big bosses are dead, their jobs are dead, so now we are?" 

Xavier considered that a moment. "That's why I called, Logan. I thought, even with Bob there, you might need the warning." 

He got it now, and it was almost funny. "You think they're comin' for me." 

"If revenge is indeed the motive, they may consider you the one that shoulders the majority of the blame." 

Logan chuckled, but there was no mirth in it, just a sort of sick bitterness. "I was the pet project gone horribly wrong, wasn't I?" 

"You were one of Stryker's obsessions," Xavier corrected. "He had a tendency to spread them on to his people." 

That reminded him why he was staying away from Xavier's. "Why did you hold out on me?" 

The subject change seemed to throw Xavier for a moment. "What? Logan, I never - " 

"Fuck you," he snapped bitterly. "You knew my past was connected to Stryker, and you never told me." 

"Surely this isn't a discussion you want to have over the phone." 

"No, it's a discussion you don't want to have ever. Now why did you tell me you knew nothing about me when you damn well did?" 

He sighed, and at least he didn't try to deny it. That was a point in his favor. "You were recovering your memories, Logan, slowly but surely. I was sure you - " 

"A sin of omission is still a lie," he interrupted. "And I don't give a fuck what your excuse is. You didn't tell me 'cause you're a chicken shit. What did you think I would do, run off and kill him?" 

"That was exactly what he wanted you to do." 

"You can read minds posthumously now? You know, Bob helped me find some of my past; he found proof I had a life before ... this." He found Mariko - he found pictures of him with her taken in a Tokyo parking garage; he found her grave. Logan had to close his eyes and take a deep breath before sorrow and rage overwhelmed him. If he crushed the phone in his fist, he bet Lia would have some big ass hissy fit, and lob a Guldar demon at his head. "You read my mind, Chuck." He packed as much contempt in that nickname as humanly possible. "You know I sometimes wondered if I was completely a lab experiment, like Frankenstein's monster or somethin'. I didn't think about it a lot, but you had to know it was there." 

"Logan, I am sorry - " 

"No, no, I don't want an apology. I want you to know that what little trust I had in you has been blown to hell. If I do anything for you now, it's not for you - it's for those poor kids. Those fucks have it bad enough bein' one of us in today's world, nonetheless havin' these government bastards after 'em. Got that?" 

Xavier paused for a good, long while, and Logan did nothing to fill the silence. He was happy to let him twist in the wind. He realized the song on the jukebox was now "Whole Lotta Rosie", and he vaguely recalled Bob once telling him that song had the "greatest three chord guitar progression" of any rock song ever. Bob was one of the strangest men (god/demon/whatever) he'd ever met, beyond a doubt. 

Finally, Xavier said, "I understand your feelings, Logan. I only wanted to do what was best for you. I see that perhaps I misjudged the situation." 

"Damn right you did. I am not one of your kids. I have seen things and I have done things that would make your hair curl - if you still had any - and every night I face a war zone in my own fucking head. I will not be patronized or treated with kid gloves. If I am part of your little group, I'm an equal. Is that clear?" 

"You were always an equal." 

"I didn't feel like it. And how can you be an equal when someone sits on major info 'cause they don't think you were strong enough to take it?" 

"That wasn't - " Xavier began, but he stopped himself before Logan could interrupt him again. After considering his next words carefully, he said, "All I ask of you is to obey the rules of the school while you're here - nothing more." 

"Fair enough." He rubbed his eyes, and tried to get back on the conversational track they had been on before he got indignant. But all he could think about now was the fact that they'd found nothing him in Stryker's files.  Even before his death, the bastard had wiped all traces of him from his database. The only thing that had been found was a single phrase - " - weapon X phase one must be considered a failure - ", and he hadn't told anyone he was "weapon X" (save for Marcus - and Bob already knew), so he couldn't say that was a reference to him. It made him wonder how many "phases" there had been, and if any of them were still alive and on the payroll. It also made him think the best chance to recover any of his past had died with Lethe. "You gotta get the kids safe until we can figure out if revenge is all their after. They'll probably leave the kids alone if this personal, but we can't assume anything." 

"I agree. It's being done." 

"Wait - what about Chambers? The demon kid." 

"I have Rogue and Piotr out looking for him. Rogue seems to have an established friendship with Brendan, he trusts her, and I believe she can reach him." 

"Piotr?" He asked, at a loss. 

"Colossus." 

That was hardly any help at all. Who in the hell had a nickname like that? "The metal guy?" He guessed. 

"Yes." Xavier sounded mildly amused by that description. 

"Well, that's no good. If the Org is out there and sees them, he's fucked if they have armor piercing bullets, isn't he? That metal ain't adamantium." 

"That's why I sent Sadiq with them as well." 

Another name that meant nothing to him. "Who the fuck is that?" 

"The oldest of the Eden children you brought back." 

Okay, now that made sense - the "constructed" mutants of Eden Biotechnics, Alex's "siblings" in mutation if nothing else. They had skin that could only be pierced by adamantium; armor piercers might tear through Colossus's "armor" like cheesecloth, but it would still bounce off the rhino hide of an Eden kid. They would need to pull out their adamantium bullets, but it probably wouldn't even occur to them to do so, not without him around. And if he was right, Sadiq was one of the Rhajan kids, which meant - fifteen or not - he'd already had some serious training as a palace guard before Bob "bought" them from al-Saud. He already knew ten ways to kill a man with his bare hands - good fucking luck to the Organization when they thought they engaged an easy target fifteen year old. "Good thinking," Logan admitted reluctantly. That was more hard nosed, pragmatic thinking than he would expect from Xavier, but then again, he was terribly short handed - both Storm and Scott were out of commission, he was here, and Jean was dead. The older kids who had at least had partial training were the fallbacks. But they could become cannon fodder way too easily, and he knew Xavier was as uncomfortable with that proposition as he was. "I'll call Bob, see if I can get ahold of him. If I can't, I'll see if I can't get one of his friends to zap me back to New York." 

"Logan - " 

"You heard me. Now I gotta drag Bob's butt out of bed." He held the receiver away, and shouted, "Incoming!" He then lobbed the phone handset back at Lia, who caught it easily, yet still gave him an evil scowl. Oh, what, did he breathe too hard on her phone? 

He was aware that calling Bob might be a difficult proposition, so he decided to make another phone call first, and hoped that - for once - he lucked out. 

3 

    It was interesting to encounter a true void. A big blank where you can't help but expect something - life, voice, intellect - to pop out. But Xavier had encountered this before, so he wasn't terribly surprised. 

Rogue, Piotr, and Sadiq had just recently returned with Brendan, who was still distraught but convinced by Rogue that the safest thing for him was to go back with them. He seemed relieved he hadn't killed anyone, although he didn't believe that they were telling the truth at first. The soldier hit by the car had had much of the impact absorbed by his heavy body armor - he had some broken bones and a concussion, but nothing fatal. The soldier who was the worst off was the one "hit" by Matt; Matt had broken his spine. He was permanently  paralyzed from the chest down. It was a bit extreme, but Xavier knew - as belligerent as Matt could get - he was still a child learning to deal with his abilities, and he'd simply lashed out, trying to help Brendan. It was not a deliberate act, even though Matt had to have been aware he was breaking something major. At least he hadn't went for the man's skull. 

Right now, he was more concerned about Logan. Unlike Scott, he didn't believe that Logan would "turn evil" on them if he left. Logan was not a black and white sort of person, and frankly working with other people always put him at a bit of a loss - really, all he wanted was to be left alone. And that was the problem. 

Avoiding humanity was second nature for Logan, and for understandable reasons. But it wasn't good for a man like Logan to become a pariah. He didn't think he would become as twisted and bitter as Erik ( could Logan, in fact, be more bitter? It sounded like a rhetorical question ), but there was a wealth of knowledge and ability locked away in his mind, and it would be a shame to let that waste away. Admittedly, accessing it was a problem, and might remain so to his dying days (if Logan had one that stuck - and you'd think that eventually he would ... someday ...), but it was there. And, in spite of all that had happened to him, Logan had a well of compassion that had yet to run dry - it was obvious in the way he refused to stand by and watch others get hurt. Unless he was doing the hurting, but that was another story. There was a good person inside of Logan, somewhere, and Jean had been sure they could access it, bring it out more. Of course, Jean had the closest bond with Logan, and now ... well, he'd tackle that conundrum when he came to it. Logan might be angry with him now, and he might have to work at regaining his trust, but at least Logan wasn't walking away entirely; that seemed like a small victory. 

Xavier went out back to the garden, where a brisk wind caused the hydrangea and laurel bushes to agitate as if trying to pull their roots out of the ground and leave. If that were indeed the case, he couldn't have blamed them. This might be ugly. 

The sky was a high, pale blue, and dry heat seemed to radiate from the grass, giving the air a dry smell that was not by itself unpleasant. It was a lovely day by appearance; a shame that it wasn't more than skin deep. 

He got a sense of those voids again, those blank minds, and finally one appeared, coming around from the left side of the house. "There you are, baldy. Don't you know it's safer inside?" The Ressik demon said, snarling. It wore a natty pinstriped blue suit that looked like a throwback to another era, and flattered the green tone of its scaled, reptilian skin. 

"If you have business with me, I don't see the reason for involving others," he pointed out, as other Ressiks started to appear. He now faced three, although none were as well dressed as the first. 

The pinstriped one - who must have been the leader - smirked as best he could with a wide, lipless mouth. "Ain't you a cool customer? You're aware that teep shit ain't gonna work on us, right?" 

He assumed "teep" was some kind of shorthand for telepathy. "I've encountered your kind before." According to Bob, the reason telepathy of any kind didn't work on Ressiks and their "cousins", Frenik demons, was for the simple reason that they didn't have "centralized" brains - their brain tissue was spread out in "nodes" all over their bodies, which was also the reason why a head shot to one of these demons most likely wouldn't be fatal, or even slow them down much. It disturbed him that Bob had knowledge of head shots, but why wouldn't he? Bob seemed to know a lot of things he shouldn't have. 

"Good for you. Obviously, this guy hadn't." Pinstripe gestured with his snake like head, and a fourth and fifth Ressik appeared from around the shade of a large maple, dragging between them a bloodied and unconscious Piotr. (He knew he was still alive; there was some base brain activity, but nothing suggesting he'd be conscious any time soon.) "The metal thing was cute, but he'd obviously never fought demons before. You need more than a cute trick if you're just a Human." 

"You didn't have to hurt anyone," Xavier said sharply. "I came out here for that very reason." 

"But where's the fun in that?" The leader asked, as the two Ressiks dropped Piotr under the tree and came to join the group forming a wide but ever shrinking circle around him. 

"You don't work for the Organization, do you?" It was just a guess, but as far as he knew, they didn't overtly employ demons. 

"Organization?" The leader replied curiously, his tangerine sized golden eyes narrowing slightly. "Which one? No, we're freelancers; we prefer being our own bosses. Surely you can get that, meat bag." 

"Mercenaries." Had the organization contracted out, since they no longer had a telepath strong enough to neutralize him? 

The Ressik shrugged with his hands, spreading them wide. "It's a living." 

"In that case, you must be givin' us a bad name," a man's voice said from the vicinity of the back wall. And before anyone could react, several things happened in rapid succession. For the most part it was gunshots, several in a quick clip, muffled slightly, suggesting the use of silencers. 

The legs of the Ressiks seemed to explode in gushes of sour smelling black blood,  and they yelped in shock as much as pain as they collapsed to the ground. The leader managed to pull out his gun and turn towards the source of the shooting, but the second he did, his gun went flying past Xavier's head - with his hand still attached. 

"Fuck!" The leader cried, grabbing the bloody stump of his right arm. 

"Now, I want those guns out on the ground, nice and slow, or yer gonna find out what it feels like to have one of those big ass eyes explode inside your head," Scorpion said, walking across the grounds with two smoking automatic pistols in his hands. "Now, unlike the heap under the tree over there, I have fought and killed demons before, so try one of your tricks and you'll need a friend with a shovel to pick up what's left of your limbs. And here's a fun fact for ya - in spite of these stupid ass goggles, I see in infrared, which means I can see your weaknesses, namely the parts of your body getting the most blood flowing to it. That's a major weakness when you get holes put in 'em. Gettin' the drift here, Snake?" 

Although Xavier could only see his back, he could feel the hate emanating from the Ressik in waves. "You're gonna pay for this, meat bag." 

"Uh huh. Watch me shake." A Ressik on the ground pulled out his gun, but Scorpion kicked him hard in the face without breaking his stride. "Now, Charlie over there is very much the pacifist, but me, I'm one of you -a merc. And I'm doing this for fun. Do the math on that yourself." 

Telepathically, Xavier sent  *Logan?* 

He seemed briefly startled, but didn't show it outwardly; he was very good at this. *Yeah, he called me, told me you guys were in deep shit, and asked me to drop by and keep an eye on things until he can get here. He also said there was an Org connection, and how could I say no to that?* 

Scorpion shoved one of the guns right under the leader's throat, and kept his second gun fixed on the rest of his troops who were still moving enough to be considered a threat. "Now, you're gonna tell us all about your employers, and what they expected you to accomplish with this, or I'm gonna see how many holes I can put in ya before you cry "uncle". Comprende?" 

The Ressik snorted derisively, at least feigning unconcern. "That ain't how baldy works, is it? He ain't gonna let you torture me." 

Scorpion spared him the slightest glance over the Ressik's sholder, quirking an eyebrow in curiosity. Xavier knew this too could get ugly, but it was hard to argue with a man who just may have saved your life, no matter how ruthless he was. And there was no doubt in his mind that Scorpion was amazingly ruthless at times. But much like Logan, he was a shadow dweller - not all good, not exactly all bad. Unlike Logan, though, this was a calculated move on his part; by not picking a side, he was free to do as he pleased whenever he felt like it.  
No matter how he chose to come off, Marcus was a very shrewd man. That was perhaps the most dangerous thing about him. 

He moved his wheelchair carefully, avoiding the splayed out Ressiks on the ground and the muddy patches their black blood made on the lawn, and made his way towards Piotr. 

"Hey," the leader shouted, sounding just a little anxious. "Hey! You can't - " 

"I do believe he can," Scorpion countered smoothly. "You got three seconds, and then you get a new hole. Talk, Snidely." 

As distasteful as it was, sometimes it was best to leave these things to the professionals. 


	3. Part 3

4  
  
Logan knew he was stuck, and wasn't sure what to do about it.  
  
After getting Bob's bland answering machine message ( "This is Bob. Not here, or not answering. I'll get back to you as soon as possible. Please leave the info after the sound of the car horn." ), he'd even tried to contact Wesley, only to find he was out and having a life too. He was so desperate to leave he even went to the Hyperion, only to discover that it was closed, and hadn't been used in some time. It was terrible when people's lives moved on without you.  
  
Even though he didn't want to, he had no choice but to return to the Way Station ( well, after stopping for a taco - hey, he was hungry ), and hope Bob had finally checked his messages. Otherwise, what else was he going to do? It wasn't like he could just hop on a plane, especially nowadays. The scream of the metal detectors would probably make the airport guards piss their pants.  
  
He paused before the door, aware that he should have at least stopped and bought a helmet. Or maybe just a cup.  
  
But as he shoved open the door of the bar, he heard what sounded like a cat being rubbed down with a cheese grater. Then again, since when did a cat know the words to "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road"?  
  
Once inside, he saw the source of the problem. A big pile of greenish brown slime, sitting in back corner, was howling along with the jukebox. Lia threw a wet bar towel at him, which hit him in the face - er, maybe. At least it landed on top of the pile.   
  
"Shut up before I throw you out - " and she said a name that sounded a lot like "Thrakazog". It couldn't have been that, though, as wasn't that the name of a villain in the cartoon "The Tick"? ( Okay, so he watched it when there was nothing else on. It was funny sometimes … )  
  
"Yeah, shut your gob before I shut it for ya, ya tone deaf bastard!" The inexplicably Cockney demon at the end of the bar shouted. He looked Human, save for having yellow crystals in place of eyes, and a distinct but odd smell of celery.  
  
Thrakazog pulled the towel off his face (?) with a very moist looking appendage, and burbled, "Everyone's a critic."  
  
Oh god, his life was a cartoon, wasn't it?  
  
He was just grappling with that shattering fact when Lia seemed to realize he was here. "What the fuck are you back for?"  
  
"Good to see you too, sunshine," he drawled, taking a stool at the bar, upwind from the British celery guy. "Bob called yet?"  
  
"No. Bye. Never darken my bar stools again."  
  
He scowled at her. "I can't find anyone to help me."  
  
"Must be your magnetic personality," she replied acidly. "Repels 'em."  
  
Celery guy snickered.  
  
He sighed, wondering what the bug up her butt about him was exactly. Did she just hate everyone who wasn't Bob on principal? "I need to get outta here."  
  
"You know where the door is. Back up."  
  
Celery guy snickered again. All right, that was it - no more Mr. Nice Guy. "Get me a beer. A good one, in a clean glass this time."  
  
Her brilliant cobalt eyes narrowed to slits. "You wouldn't dare."  
  
"Yeah, I would. Time keeps slippin' by, and I know goddamn well you know a lot of the same people Bob does. I need to get there now, and you know someone who can arrange that, but you're not sayin' 'cause you hate me. So I'm gonna stay here and make your life a living hell until I get a way outta here." He pulled a dollar bill out of his pocket, and motioned towards the jukebox. "I think I have a hankerin' for Elton John songs. With me, Thrakazog?" Well, it was playing Morrissey now - he really didn't know which was worse: him or the crooning Thrakky.  
  
Thrakazog made a sort of drunken hooting noise from the corner.  
  
If looks could have killed, Logan knew he'd have been just a stain on the floor. Lia's admittedly cute face seemed to scrunch in on itself, and she sneered like he'd just taken a leak on her carpet. "If you weren't Bob's avatar, I'd take off your fucking worthless head with a spoon."  
  
"If anyone could, I'm sure it'd be you," he replied reassuringly.  
  
She thudded a heavy book on the bar with excess violence, and at first he thought it was a phone book. But while it was just as thick, phone books weren't usually bound in brown leather ( unless it was an L.A. thing, but he doubted it ). It smelled so musty, so ripe with age, he had to turn away and sneeze.  
  
"Medusa bless ya," Celery guy said.  
  
What the hell - was he serious? Was she a god? Oh, what the fuck did it matter? He didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything.  
  
"You know this is exactly why I hate you," Lia said, angrily flipping through the thin pages.  
  
"What cha looking' for?" Celery demon asked.  
  
"Stay out of it, Rags," she snapped.  
  
Rags? But Logan wasn't ready to dismiss anyone yet. "You know any teleporters?"  
  
He scoffed. "Shit yeah. Dima dozen."  
  
"I need to be in New York as of forty five minutes ago."  
  
"No problem."  
  
Lia put a hand on her hip and studied him dubiously. "Don't bother with one of your scams, Rags. Even he's not dumb enough to fall for it."  
  
"Hey!" Logan snapped. Should he be insulted or not?  
  
" 'ey, it's not a scam!" Rags replied, even more indignant. "I've gone legit. I'm safe as 'ouses."  
  
"Demolished houses."  
  
"Do I make fun a you, Belial?"  
  
Logan looked between them, trying to figure out if she honestly hated the Cockney Rags more than him, or it was just she was sharing the wealth, like an angry hunter spraying bullets randomly into the woods. "You wouldn't dare - it's my bar. And I could rip your testicles out your ears."  
  
He dipped his head to the side. "Fair enough." His yellow crystalline eyes then shifted to Logan, and he asked, "Yer 'uman, ain't cha? Ain't you scared to be in 'ere?"  
  
He shook his head. "I'm the Decapitator."  
  
Eyes made of crystal couldn't show a lot, expression wise. But just by the way the wrinkles clustered in the corners of his eyes, he knew he didn't believe him. "No yer not. 'e has knives fer fingers; yer fingers ain't knives."  
  
Logan held up his left hand, and popped the claws, slightly slower than normal, so he could tell it wasn't a good trick.  
  
"Fuck!" He exclaimed, leaping back off his stool. The celery reek became that much stronger. He looked torn between running out the door and fainting, but finally, after Logan had retracted his claws and lowered his hand, did he start slowly creeping back to his stool. "Fuck! You're real. I thought you were a myth or sumpfing." It sounded like he actually said "sumpfing"; it also sounded like he said "miff".  
  
"I'm as real as you are." But could a Cockney demon with an accent thick enough to make him nearly incomprehensible, yellow crystals for eyes, and an inexplicable scent of celery be real? It sounded like some kind of weird Bob joke.  
  
"Is that like a custom job or sumpfing?" He wondered, straddling the stool once more. "Do ya just got the one?"  
  
"Matching set." Logan honestly didn't feel like talking about it. "So who's this 'porter?"  
  
"I am."  
  
"Bullshit," Lia snapped. "You're a Persaid demon - you can't teleport!"  
  
"I can so!" Rags replied with a sort of wounded dignity. "I learned 'ow when I became 'igh Priest of the Stone Temple. "  
  
Logan studied him curiously, sure he had heard him wrong. "You're in Stone Temple Pilots?"  
  
Yes, he'd gotten it wrong. His blond brows lowered until they looked like they were about to touch the stones of his eyes. "Nah, I'm a 'igh Priest in the Stone Temple, dedicated to Medusa and her 'oly sisters. I learned 'ow to teleport once I graduated from being a prelate. 'onest." He made a crossing his heart gesture ( assuming he had a heart, and in that general area ), and Logan noticed that not only was he six fingered, but he seemed to have a tattoo of a leafy black vine crawling up his wrist, twining over his hand.  
  
"Is it a big church?" Logan asked, almost in spite of himself.  
  
Rags shrugged. "Big enough. We don't 'ave any 'umans. The Goth kids get interested, but once they find out we don't do blood rituals or go to Cure shows, they leave."  
  
"Okay, prove it." Lia challenged. "If you can 'port, do it."  
  
It occurred to Logan she was trying to protect him, and he wondered if it was because she hated Rags more than him, or if she just didn't like liars who weren't Belial demons.  
  
Rags frowned at her. "You fink I'm a liar."  
  
She nodded, not bothering to comment further.  
  
Rags sighed like he was the most put upon demon in the bar, and reached into the breast pocket of his orange t-shirt. "I resent that, you know," he muttered, before saying something even more incomprehensible than normal, and throwing what looked like a pinch of glitter in the air. He disappeared with an audible "whoomp", and the rest of the glitter drifted down onto the now empty bar stool.  
  
"That was impressive," Logan admitted.  
  
"But there was a sound," Lia countered. "That's kind of cheesy."  
  
"I wanna beanie jet!" Thrakazog suddenly shouted.  
  
"Any idea?" Logan asked Lia.  
  
She shook her head. "No, no fuckin' clue."  
  
Rags reappeared on his stool with another "whoomp". "See? I told ya I could. I ain't a liar." He brushed the glitter from his mop of white-blond hair.  
  
"What's that stuff?" Logan asked, gesturing to the stuff falling on the bar. "Fairy dust?"  
  
"What? Nah - fairy's don't exist. It's sprite dust."  
  
Logan quirked an eyebrow at him. "The drink?"  
  
Rags scowled at him. "Are you takin' the piss? The drink? Shit."  
  
"So how much to get from here to New York?"  
  
He at least pretended to think about it for a moment. "Where in New York?"  
  
"Westchester."  
  
He shook his head. "Never 'eard of it. But as long as you know where it is and think about it, it'll work. I don't like goin' to New York - the people scare me." He paused to take a slurp of his drink, and then said, "A 'undred bucks."  
  
"Go swivel," Lia snapped. "The usual is seventy bucks and you know it." Leave it to her to know the going rate of teleporters.  
  
"Seventy five?" Rags offered, looking at him.  
  
"Seventy and a drink on the house."  
  
"Deal," Rags agreed.  
  
"Hey, you can't do that," Lia sniped.  
  
"I don't think Bob would mind me compin' someone one drink."  
  
"Maybe he doesn't, but I do."  
  
Logan frowned at her, but dug in his pocket and pulled out a five, which he tossed on the counter. He then counted out seventy bucks and slid it down towards Rags.  
  
"Cheers, mate," he said, lifting his glass and gulping down the rest of his drink.  
  
"So how do we do this thing?" Logan asked, still dubious. He knew he'd honestly disappeared from the room - briefly, he couldn't smell celery - but he wasn't sure if he should trust him. Still, the fact that Lia hated him was a point in his favor.  
  
Rags slammed his empty glass down and stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and gestured for him to stand and get closer to him. Logan did, but warily. "Give me yer 'and."  
  
He waited for him to get to the punch line, but he was serious. "Do I have to?"  
  
"If you wanna come wit' me, yeah."  
  
Logan held out his hand, hoping Xavier appreciated the things he things did for that bloody school. But it was Rags' turn to look at him warily. "Yer not gonna bring out the knives, are ya?"  
  
"Be good and I won't."  
  
"Okay." But he still seemed dubious, even as he took his wrist. "Safe as 'ouses," he muttered to himself. "You thinking' about the place you wanna go?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Good."  
  
"A Long Island ice tea is six fifty," Lia said, waving the five like a soiled napkin.  
  
He rolled his eyes. He honestly didn't care anymore if Rags was a fraud or not - he just wanted to get the hell away from her. "Bill me."  
  
Her brilliant blue eyes narrowed to slits. "You cheap motherf -" But he didn't get to hear the rest of her insult, as Rags had repeated the incomprehensible word, thrown the glitter in the air, and reality disappeared from them in a "pmoohw".  
  
It was all darkness, a sensation of falling, and lateral movement, like he was being shoved across a chessboard. Then light and reality returned, a pinprick quickly blossoming into a spotlight, and with another "pmoohw" they were spit out into it as if from the end of a slide at a water park.  
  
Logan stumbled away from him, managing to both keep his balance and not toss his taco, but he was lucky. "Fuck," he cursed, as soon as he could speak. "Why didn't ya warn me it was a bumpy ride?"  
  
"Cross country's never easy," Rags said, as if that was enough of an explanation.  
  
They were in the back garden of Xavier's, and the sun was starting to set, turning the sky a pale pink that would soon deepen into orange and then red, moving from hues of flesh to hues of blood. It was far from dark, although his vision had to adjust - come back from a crappy teleport, he supposed - and he could smell long before he saw the dead body.  
  
The grass was spotted with black puddles of sour Ressik blood, and there was one laying about a half meter from the pond, and a severed hand all by its lonesome suspended in the shrubbery.  
  
"Nice place," Rags said, glancing around, brushing glitter from his hair. (Sprite dust his ass -it was just store bought glitter - what the fuck was that about?) "Yours?" Then his crystalline yellow eyes settled on the dead body, and all the pools of rank blood. "Ah - uh. I guess I'd best scarper."  
  
"You do that," he agreed, popping his claws. In spite of the thick scent of violence, he got some other scents too. Xavier, metal guy, lots of cordite … and Marcus. Good, he got here in time? Maybe things weren't as bad as he feared.  
  
Rags disappeared behind him with a "whoomp" and a brief whiff of celery, and he didn't bother to look back. What, didn't Medusa priests give last rites? Or did they only give them to snakes?  
  
He approached the home warily, unnerved by its silence, but then the rear door was slid open, and Marcus looked out at him, giving him a shit eating grin. "Loser. You missed all the fun."  
  
The story of his life.  
  
5  
  
He felt weird being inside the mansion again; it was like an itch between his shoulder blades that he knew wouldn't go away until he got outside and breathed fresh air again ( although it was technically thick with death and Ressik blood ). But Marcus being here made him feel slightly less awkward, for whatever reason.  
  
Still, it was weird being in Xavier's study without any of his people ( and he couldn't help but think of them that way - Xavier's people ) - no Storm, no Scott, no Jean. Rogue was here - she apparently had to physically drag Brendan to the study, as he refused to come out of his room - but she hadn't been here long enough for him to think of her as one of "Xavier's people".  
  
Logan was inexplicably tired, and figured it was "teleport lag" or whatever, so he threw himself in the chair farthest away from everyone and tried to pretend he wasn't exhausted and dying for a beer ( he should have remembered to tell Marcus to bring some ).  
  
Marcus was sprawled on one corner of the leather sofa, looking remarkably relaxed and at ease, but Logan knew that was just a pose with him - he was always ready to go. Rogue was sitting on the opposite end of the couch, as far from Marcus as possible ( he was getting the sense he made her nervous ), with Brendan between them but closer to her ( well, he didn't know him at all ). Xavier was parked beside his desk but not behind it, which surely meant something. The room was very dark, as the curtains had been pulled shut, but he didn't know if that was in deference to Marc's infrared sight or just to confound potential snipers. ( Whenever you were under siege, the tried and true rule was stay the fuck away from the windows. )  
  
For some reason, Brendan kept looking at him. He kept looking away before Logan could catch him, but he could feel when people were looking at him, so it didn't matter. "What?" He finally snapped, staring at him.  
  
Brendan glanced up shyly. "It's warm in here. I was just wondering if, uh, you were gonna take off your coat."  
  
"Yeah, Logan, take it off," Marcus agreed, grinning, happy to encourage any libidinous behavior. "Take it all off."  
  
He glared at him. "You wanna die, don't ya, Marc?" Marcus - of course - just laughed.  
  
Xavier kicked things off by saying, "The information we were able to get from the Ressiks wasn't very helpful."  
  
"They said they were hired by some white guy - their exact words - and met with him at a deli on 52nd street. They were paid twenty five hundred in cash to come here and threaten the Chuckster over there," Marcus said, continuing the narrative. "They could rough him up a little, to let him know they were serious, but nothing major. The point was to deliver the message that he was going to be getting a phone call around sunset tonight, and whatever he was told to do he should comply immediately, or not only would they finish the job they started today on his "pets", but the school would be rubble. But they didn't ask why or who was behind it, 'cause they're mercs and why the fuck would they care? As long as the money's good, they're on. I mean, I'd have asked a couple questions, but I ain't your average mercenary."  
  
Brendan looked at him sharply. "You're a mercenary? Seriously?"  
  
Marcus nodded. "Best in the biz, but I'm not cheap."  
  
"Do you got someone on Scott and Storm?" Logan asked Xavier, getting back to the point.  
  
He nodded. "The police are guarding them. I doubt that even the Organization would like having to explain shooting police officers in a hospital."  
  
"Cops are watching mutants? Since when?" Logan asked, sure he'd missed something.   
  
Xavier gave him a wan, sickly smile. "What mutants? There aren't any mutants at the hospital."  
  
"But you just said - " Rogue began, but stopped as she figured it out. "Oh." What all the talk of equality couldn't accomplish, a little telepathic futzing could.  
  
"Is that enough?" Logan asked. "I mean, with Delirium out there - "  
  
"You know they ain't the most likely target, bud," Marcus interrupted. "Not the ones who would be the easiest to get to if things go shitty."  
  
He had to nod. Marcus had a point - he was very good at thinking like a bad guy. Not that he was all that shabby at it. "The school."  
  
Marcus nodded in return. "Higher body count, higher reason to cooperate."  
  
Brendan slid down the couch, farther away from Marcus and closer to Rogue.  
  
Logan glanced at Xavier, who seemed partially pained by this entire discussion. "We got a lot of time before they call. Why are we here?"  
  
"We're not gonna sit here and let 'em bomb the school or whatever - right?" Rogue asked, glancing at Xavier before settling her eyes on him. Well, of course - she expected him to agree with her. And he would, but he mildly resented being considered predictable.  
  
"No, of course not," Xavier agreed. "I thought it best we arm ourselves with as much information as possible."  
  
Brendan groaned, and hid his face in his hands. "You're gonna make me tell it again, aren't you?"  
  
"No. With your permission, I'd like to see it, and share it with the others." As he glanced up in shock, Xavier explained, "Marcus and Logan have had more experience with the Organization than I have. They may catch something I'd miss."  
  
Logan thought that was a nice way to put it. "More experience" - translated, "Killed a whole motherfucking ton of them".  
  
Brendan looked nervous, flop sweat popping out on his forehead as his skin turned faintly bluish-green, as if the demon side of him was on the verge of emerging in his anxiety. "It won't hurt, will it?"  
  
Xavier gave him a gentle, avuncular smile, like he'd heard that a million times before. He probably had, every time he used his telepathy on someone who'd never experienced it before. "Not at all."  
  
So he'd come all the way here, after so much drama, only to watch the shooting through the eyes of the witness? Couldn't Xavier just hooked him up by phone?  
  
What did the Organization want from Xavier? Obviously it was something major, and something they thought he wouldn't give - why shoot Scott and Storm and threaten the school otherwise? It had to be major, and it had to be bad.  
  
Shit - they needed Bob. Where the hell was Bob?  
  
6  
  
He crouched down beside the "shore" of Alkali Lake, his reflection mirrored in its still, dark surface. It was like a vast pool of spilled ink.  
  
Bob reached down and touched it, breaking the surface tension, making ripples move away from his hand while the water seemed to cling to his palm like oil. It wasn't just "shrinkage" cold, but "pull up inside your body and freeze solid anyways" cold. "Little fish, big fish, swimming in the water," he muttered to himself, watching the ripples move out towards the far center. "Come back here man, give me my daughter."  
  
"Doctor Seuss?" Helga asked curiously. Her reflection was just a tall shadow behind him, save for the flick of her tail.  
  
He shook his head. "It's a P.J. Harvey song."  
  
"You have a song for every occasion, don't you?"  
  
"Not Groundhog's Day. Nothing ever sounded right." He lifted his hand off the lake and shook the water off his hand. Resistant to cold or not, he could still feel the skin going numb.  
  
Hel thought about it a moment, then said, "What about 'Wynonna's Big Brown Beaver'?"  
  
That startled a laugh out of him, which seemed to echo back at him in this desolate mountain setting. There were some trees still standing, but many on the far side had fallen over, uprooted by their own weight in the suddenly sodden, loose earth. He swallowed back as much of the laugh as he could, and told her, "I think that's stretching the small furry animal concept to the breaking point."  
  
When he stood and turned to face her, she was grinning at him wickedly, exposing her sharp canine teeth. She and Logan had those styles of canines in common - had they ever noticed that? "You're just jealous you didn't think of it first."  
  
He shrugged. "I am kicking myself." He glanced around at the jagged mountains and the intact clutches of evergreens around them, looking for some sign of the dam and the base that used to be here. It was all under the water, of course, hidden and unreachable for all time … well, in theory. But they weren't counting on him; virtually no one counted on him. He was generally as unexpected as the Spanish Inquisition, but better dressed.  
  
Helga shivered, and sunk deeper into her leather bomber jacket. She was only wearing hiking boots, jeans, and his 'Bad Religion' t-shirt underneath it, so she really wasn't ready for this. She just assumed they were going to a "flatter" part of Canada, or at least one where she'd have an occasion to use her flamethrower. "Well?" She asked.  
  
"Well what?"  
  
"Is she - it, whatever - still here?" 


	4. Part 4

"I'm not sure," he admitted. He was getting a lot of bad mojo here, but none of it seemed terribly recent. An area like this - a site of so much death and pain - was hard to visit in any case; he could pick up the psychic and emotional "afterimages" of intense violence, which made it difficult to go anywhere near war zones or former prisoner of war or concentration camps. It usually faded after some time, but in its way that was sad - often, when the residue faded, people forgot how horrible these things were.  
  
And sometimes Camaxtli used violence as a sort of cloak - it was what he was, after all.   
  
"Not sure?" Helga repeated in mild disbelief. "Why the hell not?" Then, in a quieter tone, she asked, "Could he kill you?"  
  
"Cammy?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
He shook his head, and stared out at the vast expanse of water before them. It almost seemed peaceful, like a calm inland sea. "Not easily."  
  
She punched him in the back of the arm. "That ain't a no, old man."  
  
Damn, she knew him too well. "The problem lies in his followers, not him. The more followers he has, the more blood they give him, the more powerful he is. And unlike Ares, Cammy is a smart war god - he won't make any move against me until he knows he can kill me. He doesn't wanna fight; he'll only want me out of the way. Done and done."  
  
"He doesn't have any followers. He was a fucking Aztec god, wasn't he?"  
  
"Mayan. And Incan and … Chichimec, I think. And he still has followers, believe me; he's a cult favorite, under one of many names."  
  
"How exactly do they feed him blood? He ain't a vamp. Are we talkin' sacrifices here?"  
  
"Among the cruder, sure, but I'm sure the smarter ones have learned all you need to do is bless a recent battlefield or scene of violence in his name - any of them - and he gets all that blood. It's a retroactive power feed."  
  
"How lucky for him. Could that work in someone else's favor? I mean, could the same ground be blessed in someone else's name and be taken away from him?"  
  
"Oh yes, without a doubt, but it has to be done very recently afterwards. It won't work for Cammy if the blood is old, and the same is true of everyone else." He took a deep breath and briefly closed his eyes, preparing to shift his mode of vision.  
  
"If people don't die in his name, does he starve? Does he wither away to a husk?"   
  
"No."  
  
"Well, there goes that plan."  
  
"Gods can live without worship; nowadays they kinda have to, and believe me, that's better for everybody. The ones that love it or feed off that psychic energy are not the type of beings you want to invite to dinner. And Cammy's persnickety anyways - he insists even his followers aren't worshiping him the right way."  
  
"They don't suck his dick enough?"  
  
Bob had to force himself to swallow another laugh. Gods, he had missed her. "Not exactly, but close." He opened his eyes, and the world had changed. Well, no, but his perception of it had.  
  
His physical form was, in all honesty, quite malleable; he didn't like to do it, but if he had to. He could alter his body to fit a situation. Low air, for example, or, in this case, to see the threads.  
  
They were the threads of energy that ran through everything, that were in fact everything. Everything was energy, as any physicist could tell you, and if he allowed himself to, he could feel them as well as see them, but frankly that got to him after a while. It was like being constantly afflicted with static cling. Right now he got a mild sense of them, enough that he could feel the hair on his arms standing on end, but he ignored it as best he could. The threads surrounded him like a spider's web of white light, and while he gestured with his arms, he didn't need to - it was just habit.  
  
He raised his arms like a conductor while he concentrated, focusing on all the energy rending the air around him, feeling it twining around him like they slender threads they resembled.  
  
"Uh, old man, what're you doing?" Helga asked, sounding just a little nervous.  
  
"I need a closer look," he said, slowly spreading his arms. He felt the mild resistance, like gravity itself was trying to fight him, but of course it didn't hold out for long. He vaguely recalled Xavier's friend - Erik, right? - and how he obviously thought he was hot shit because he could manipulate magnetic fields. Bob wondered how'd he feel if he used those same fields against him - hey, undoubtedly old Magneto was very good at what he did, but Bob knew he was better. He could manipulate every single thing he could see, and even things he couldn't. When it came down to it, Magneto - powerful mutant or not - was just a Human being; he was not.  
  
Bob wondered what Jean was now.  
  
The lake seemed to split down the center, the water moving back as if being plowed by some heavy, invisible object, and the split became a seam, and then a gap. Soon they could see the bottom of the lake as it parted, water held up on the sides as if behind unseen walls.   
  
"You know, you keep doin' shit like this, and people will think the Bible's real," she noted wryly.  
  
"Well, there's no one around but us chickens." He took another deep breath and closed his eyes, changing his vision back to normal. He knew he should one day let a quantum physicist see them - there'd be their string theory confirmed for good.  
  
"So can I call you Moses now?"  
  
"No. If you looked for a parallel between me and a Bible character, the closest one would be Lucifer, and having known the real one, I'd rather not be grouped in that crowd." There was an alley between the water, maybe six feet wide, and the now bare dirt was a combination of muddy and rubble strewn: chunks of concrete rose up like broken teeth, fallen tree stumps laid like severed limbs covered with the slime and rot of the grave, and oddly enough, there was a burned patch, where the soil had been scorched seemingly to the bedrock.   
  
"You mean you're not the big hizzonor yourself?" She teased.  
  
He opened his eyes, vision back to normal, to shoot her a sarcastic look. "If I was, wouldn't you be salt by now?"  
  
She grinned at him, her green eyes bright with mischief. "If I was, would you lick me?"  
  
He smiled and shook his head, looking back at the parted lake. "That's what I love about you, hon. Always turnin' a negative into a positive."  
  
"Somebody has to."  
  
"Indeed." He looked down, and was surprised to see that here, even on the "shallow end" of the shore, it was about an eight foot jump down to wet earth. He was glad he wore his old boots, because he was about to get mucky. Oh, what the fuck? He didn't have to get mucky. "Wanna come with me?"  
  
"Sure, why not? Better than freezing my tits off here. You sure the water won't rush in on us?"  
  
He looked back at her, grinning in a way that Luke had always called "dumb ass", but hey, Luke was inclined to call most things dumb ass. "Sweetie, I can fight a war god. Do you think I can't hold back a lake?"  
  
"I'm sure you can, but can you overcome your natural urge to be a complete asshole?"  
  
He had to admit she had a point there. "Trust me, darling, it's too fucking cold for me to be an asshole. I'm not freezing' my apricots off for a joke."  
  
To be funny, she pretended to study him before she bothered to answer. "All right. I guess I'll trust you this once."  
  
He pulled her into his arms, and dipped her as if they were doing the tango. She grinned up at him, tail twining around his waist. "You won't regret it," he promised, giving her a kiss on the forehead. And then he teleported them down to the space between the two halves of the lake, so when they straightened up, they were quite literally down in it. Man, was this equally beautiful and creepy.  
  
The lake was very deep - to say the walls of water towered twenty feet over their heads was erring on the side of caution; it was as gray as stone, and he knew that there couldn't be anything living in here. And not only due to the cold.  
  
Hel looked around and whistled low, impressed. "I've never been in a canyon made of water before."  
  
"Neither have I. Kinda pretty, isn't it?"  
  
"Yeah. It'd be prettier if the water was blue."  
  
"All the silt and pulverized concrete - it'll be gray for a long time, until it all settles." He walked down the "aisle" into the deeper part of the lake, the mud squelching under his heels. Some of the concrete, the harder stuff filled with wire mesh and stronger stone, was still relatively intact in jagged chunks, and he stepped over it carefully. The first fallen log he came to had been stripped of its branches and some of its bark by the force of the water, but was amazingly whole in spite of it all, even after all this time under deep, cold water. But then again, the trees up here had probably become very resilient buggers out of necessity. This was a hard and unforgiving part of the country, and it made so much sense that Logan had been forged here, his personally honed and set in adamantium for all eternity. It was no coincidence he was a resilient bugger too; he'd had no choice.  
  
Bob crouched down in front of the first scorch mark he came to. It was an amorphous splotch that stretched out underneath the water walls on either side, but he could see enough of it to see there was nothing in it capable of containing moisture - it was the single anomalous dry spot in a muddy lake bed. He touched it, ran his hand over the soot, the remains of earth flash fried down to its very molecules, and tasted just a hint of energy. Powerful, the psychic equivalent of a nuclear detonation; as such, all subtleties were lost, and most of the "flavors" burned away. But there were traces … yes, Jean had been here. Something of Jean had been involved - but how much? There was a sense of something else, but it could have been all her - or at least most.  
  
"What exactly happened to Carrie?" Helga asked, still splashing in the mud behind him. "I'm not clear on that."  
  
"No one is. And her name was Jean."  
  
"Whatever."  
  
"She was a favorite of yours, I can tell."  
  
"I didn't get that silly repressed bitch at all," she said, with more honesty than spite. "I mean, she had some power, but did she let loose with it? Nah, she just hung around and played good little schoolmarm. And she obviously had the screamin' ya-yas for Logan, but did she fuck him? No, she stuck with the anal retentive Boy Scout who was apparently afraid of hurting a hair on anyone's chinny chin chin, so they could get together and be very repressed New Englanders together. I mean, there's a snowball's chance in Maui that Boy Scout's okay in bed, but the anal retentive never are, in my experience. If you can't just relax and let go and have fun, let your guard down, you're not good in the sack, full stop, end of story. And if you're a control freak too, that goes double."  
  
"Logan lets his guard down?" He was just curious about that. Helga often had interesting insights into people, whether she slept with them or not. But usually the sleeping bit helped immensely.  
  
"Oh yeah. I think that's why he doesn't have those nightmares after sex. I mean, I think he thinks it's exhaustion - the boy's got stamina, goddamn him; gotta love that. Also, he's built like a brick shithouse, and how can you not be impressed by that? But I think it's 'cause he's not expecting the fight."  
  
He looked back over his shoulder at her. She was staring at one of the water walls like it was a dark mirror, and giving it an experimental poke with her finger. The water bent under her fingertip, like it was nothing but a sheet. "You mean because he's let down his guard, it makes him less vulnerable to his own memories?"  
  
"Yeah. Weird ass paradox, I know, but I think he's always fighting, so his mind fights back."  
  
"His own worst enemy." That did make a sort of twisted, awful sense. Just as his theories with Jean and Camaxtli did. "Ever told him?"  
  
She scoffed, placing her hand flat against the water. "And ruin it for him? Are you nuts?"  
  
That made sense too. She withdrew her hand quickly from the wall and shook it - the water was still bitterly cold, even if it didn't come in contact with her flesh - and he realized she was very fond of Logan. It wasn't just lust anymore, there was something else there now as well. Not love, not exactly, but Bob knew if he was out of the picture, she would be with him. Logan was fond of her too. He wasn't surprised; Hel and Logan had a lot in common, whether either of them admitted it. They were both strong and fearless people, both survivors, both people who had come out the other side of what could be called dark nights of the soul. That was precisely why he liked them. To be tested and found wanting was one thing; to be tested, found wanting, and keep going was another thing entirely. That was why he chose them to help him fight the gods - who in their right mind would? Mortals going up against any god - nonetheless several, or a crazy one, or both - were instantly doomed. Both Logan and Helga knew this, accepted it, and went ahead anyways, because that's the type of people they were. They could both represent the best of being mortal, and neither knew it, or simply refused to accept it. That was yet another mark in their favor.  
  
He stood up, wiping his sooty hands on his pants, and tried to explain his theory about Jean to her. "I think Cammy, when she was acting as his aegis, opened a gateway in her mind."  
  
She turned to face him, quirking a green eyebrow. "A gateway? I'm assuming not to teleport."  
  
"No. But the thing is, I'm not sure if he used it, or one of his friends used it, or if he did nothing but spur Jean's power development. It's not like he's gonna tell me; he's enjoyin' leavin' me in suspense too much."  
  
"But he spurred her power development to what, exactly? Is she his avatar?"  
  
Bob shook his head, and touched the water wall himself, but since he controlled it, he was able to push his hand right through it, up to the wrist, although no water leaked out beyond his skin. "In her Human form, she wouldn't have been strong enough - he'd have blown her brain matter straight out her ears." He closed his eyes, feeling his hand go numb, and mentally sent out, as loudly as he could *Jean, can you hear me? Respond. I am not here to harm you.* Of course, if she'd just been a mutant telepath, he'd have killed her - but he was pretty sure she wasn't simply that anymore. After a moment of nothing, he added *Logan sent me.* Would that do it? If there was enough of the Human Jean left, it might. She had been trying to contact him; it meant something. The key to her humanity could be the people she knew and loved. He was someone she partially knew but never trusted; she suspected his motives for befriending Logan, as well as who ( or what) he was, and what exactly he did. He had to respect her for that. Scott just knee jerk hated him because any so called "friend" of Logan's had to be bad news.  
  
"Let me guess - the key to that explanation is "in her Human form"."  
  
"Yes. But Cammy loves upsettin' the apple cart. He doesn't like the other Highers, and he's disdainful of the supposed Lowers."  
  
She considered that thoughtfully. "So he wouldn't want an avatar on this plane, but he might enjoy fucking with the other Highers."  
  
"And adding more chaos to the chaos already throwing the Higher Realms into anarchy." Bob pulled his hand out of the water, and shook it to bring the circulation back. It felt like his blood was turning to ice in his veins. At her questioning look, he shook his head. "She's not here anymore." It was very disappointing too, because she could be anywhere - it was possible she even jumped dimensions, if Cammy gave her the power.  
  
"How are gods made, exactly?" She asked, cocking her head. "I mean, do you just knock a goddess up? I get the feeling it doesn't quite work like that. After all, you said Fenrir was a case of parthenogenesis, right?"  
  
"Yes. It sort of depends. It can be as easy as that, but it isn't usually."  
  
"Is Jean Human anymore?"  
  
"Part of her is."  
  
Hel's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "So what's the rest of her?"  
  
Bob didn't answer, because he couldn't: he had no proof, he really didn't know for certain. But he feared he knew the answer anyways.  
  
7  
  
Marcus was the first to break the spell. "One shot," he said, as both Storm and Scott hit the deck.  
  
Logan could feel himself nodding, although he couldn't see any part of himself, or Marcus, or anyone beyond Storm, Scott, and the now freaked Matt Parker - they were viewing Brendan's perfectly eidetic memory straight through his eyes and ears and ( yes, although Logan had no idea if anyone else was getting it ) his nose. Perhaps out of deference to Brendan's need for privacy, Bren's thoughts were muted, as if Xavier had shunted those off to the side.  
  
"What?" Rogue asked, sounding slightly ill. She insisted on being included, but it was still obvious, even in this psychic blind spot, that the violence had sickened her. Shootings in real life were never quite what they looked like in movies or on television.   
  
"A single bullet," Logan clarified. "It hit Storm and passed through Scott."  
  
"Did it lodge?" Marcus asked, and Logan knew he was asking him.  
  
"I caught a blur," he told him. "I think it passed out through Scott's chest at the side, probably caroming off a bone, maybe the ribcage. You said he had a collapsed lung, right Professor? So it must have been a high velocity shot to go through two people and still have enough momentum to keep going."  
  
"I'm going to be sick," Rogue said.  
  
"Armor piercers, I bet," Marc said, ignoring that. "And that guy's a hell of a shot to wipe out two people standing at odd angles with a single bullet." They could see the dark movement of someone on the roof of the building across the way, obviously the sniper who took them out.  
  
"Okay, at least we know it's a man."  
  
"How do we know that?" Brendan asked curiously.  
  
"Broad shoulders," Logan told him. "Way too broad for any female."  
  
"I knew it wasn't a crow," Brendan muttered.  
  
As things progressed, Logan got a sense - well, a smell - of Brendan's increasing anxiety. He had not been comfortable with this to begin with, and now he smelled overwhelmed. "You did good, kid," Logan reassured him, feeling as awkward as Bren surely felt. "You did everything right. You know that, don't you?"  
  
"Do I?" He replied nervously. But he also sounded slightly relieved. "I - I didn't know what to do."  
  
"You probably saved their lives," Rogue chimed in, happy to encourage him. Bren was certainly an insecure fellow, wasn't he? Was it the demon thing? "They owe you one. Matt does too."  
  
"I think Matt paid me back." Perhaps understanding how that could be interpreted, he added, "I mean, getting' the guard that grabbed me and all."  
  
Just from the increasing sour smell of his sweat, Logan knew he hated them seeing everything after he "demoned" out. But he really didn't know why: the kid obviously showed up here with some survival skills, which most of the suburban refugees that washed up at Xavier's didn't have. And being a demon that made him invulnerable to some things that Humans were, as he had proved to the shock of the Organization. "You oughta help out in the self-defense classes," Logan continued. "You could teach some of these other kids a thing or two."  
  
There was a pause before Bren replied, somewhat hopefully, "You think so?"  
  
"Yeah, I - " But Logan stopped dead, as Brendan's eyes, in memory, focused on an Asian woman in black body armor, speaking into her radio.  
  
"Logan?" Xavier asked curiously.  
  
He knew her. He didn't know how, but … he knew her. He felt it in the twist of his gut, in something like an itch in the back of his mind. Even as the memories moved on, Logan could still see her in his mind. Her glossy black hair sleeked back like a helmet, her almost feline hazel eyes … yes, yes, he knew her, like he knew Stryker.  
  
"Bud?" Marc asked. "Still with us, man?"  
  
"Xia," he said, not sure where that had come from. "That's Xia."  
  
"Who's Xia?" Marc wondered.  
  
"I don't know," he admitted, even though she remained familiar … and yet as elusive as a word on the tip of his tongue. Damn it, he hated this.  
  
"A woman you worked with in the Organization?" Xavier said. It wasn't really a question. "Is she a mutant?"  
  
Logan started to say something, then stopped, and tried again. "I'm not sure."  
  
He wasn't; he had no idea at all. The only thing he was sure of was that he did know her. And somehow, in some way, he had failed her too.  
  
"Is this a good thing or a bad thing?" Brendan wondered. "That you know one of 'em?"  
  
"It wasn't good with Stryker," Rogue noted.  
  
The useful memories were pretty much at an end - Brendan took off across the street as the cops approached - and the phone rang, startling all of them. Logan was relieved, as it spared him from trying to figure out who Xia was and how he knew her, at least for now.  
  
Xavier took them out of the vision abruptly, and it was slightly disorienting, one reality swapping for another. Logan rubbed his eyes and waited for the disorientation to past, only to find the woman still burned into the back of his retinas. He wished he knew for certain that she was friend or foe - for the moment, he had to assume she was foe. She was with the Organization after all. But he wondered how much she knew about his past - his real past.  
  
Xavier picked up the phone, and said with an unusual amount of coldness, "Yes?"  
  
Suddenly Logan could hear the other person on the end of the line as clearly as if the receiver was pressed to his ear. Xavier was obviously "sharing" the call with everyone. "Charles Xavier?" The voice was smooth, male, with a clipped British accent. Two to one it was another demon, or at least a mutant that Xavier had no hope of telepathically reading.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Very good. I suppose you know why I'm calling."  
  
"What is it you want?" He asked, with barely veiled hostility. Xavier glanced at Logan and shook his head; no, he couldn't read him.  
  
"The discs. Deliver them to us and I assure you we will leave you and your children alone from now on."  
  
Everyone exchanged blank stares. What the hell was he talking about? "What discs?" Xavier asked.  
  
The man chuckled without mirth, and when he spoke, his voice was as smooth as velvet. "Playing dumb doesn't become you, Professor. The discs you took from Stryker's office. We want them back."  
  
"We didn't take any discs from Stryker's office," Rogue exclaimed, then slapped her own hand over her mouth in horror. But the guy on the phone couldn't hear her.  
  
She was right. According to Kitty, who actually went in there, there were no computer discs - she said there looked to be some kind of "locking tray" where they might have been kept, but it was empty. She only took the hard copy files, and of those ( she had to go in five times to bring them all out ), only about a half dozen had anything to do with Stryker's "program" and Weapon X. It was assumed that Stryker's remaining people had started cleaning out the office before they had arrived, so they had to hurry and get what they could. "We took no discs, only files," Xavier told him. "We turned all relevant ones over to the President."  
  
"Uh huh," the man said, with obvious sarcasm. "Do you really think those discs are worth the lives of your students?"  
  
"I told you, we took no discs, only files. The discs were gone when we arrived."  
  
"Bullshit. What do you hope to accomplish with stonewalling? Have you not been paying attention?"  
  
"I am telling you the truth. We don't have your discs. Perhaps you should ask Stryker's people what - "  
  
"Is Weapon X there?" The man interrupted.  
  
Logan felt his stomach twist once more, his blood turn cold. Oh god no. Marc looked at him, but suddenly realizing he'd told no one else, looked away.  
  
But too late. Logan could feel Xavier's eyes on him, trying to urge him to look back, but Logan stared down at the carpet, refusing to meet his eyes. Why did he come back here?  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about," Xavier lied.  
  
"What the hell is Weapon X?" Rogue whispered, and Logan glanced up, mildly horrified to see she was staring at him.  
  
"It's me," Marc said.  
  
"No," Logan said weakly, and mostly due to shock. What the fuck was he doing?  
  
"I'll tell ya later," Marc whispered to Rogue. "It's a long story." Marcus looked back at him and quirked his eyebrow in what was probably the equivalent of a wink. Why did he do that? Why was he covering for him? It wasn't going to work with Xavier.  
  
"Oh, I think you do," the smarmy British guy said, his voice oozing a sleazy kind of triumph. "For a telepath, you're a remarkably bad liar. You let our old buddy X know we're ready for him, if he wants another rematch, but this time no Humans - just mutant on mutant action. I don't think he'll fare as well this time. But if he wants to come back and stop pretending to be something he's not, we're willing to forgive."  
  
"Tell them they can suck my dick," Marc snapped, feigning irritation.  
  
"What does Weapon X mean exactly?" Brendan asked him quietly.  
  
Marc shrugged. "Means they tried to turn me into a mutant killing weapon, that's what. They failed."  
  
Brendan glanced at his barely concealed Glocks, and asked, "Are you sure?"  
  
They were buying it. And why not? Marc wasn't exactly a Gandhi sort of guy. He wasn't exactly a "kill 'em all and let god sort 'em out type" either, but sometimes he veered close to that line; he could be zealous in his need and definition of "self-defense". But what he didn't understand was why Marc was taking the heat off of him - what was he gonna get out of it? The kids couldn't possibly be more scared of him.  
  
"I thought the Organization had disbanded," Xavier said, ignoring everything else. He wasn't going to call Marcus on the charade, then, or at least not in front of the kids.  
  
"In a manner of speaking. But you know what they say about bureaucrats, don't you? They never die, they just get transferred."  
  
"What are you now?"  
  
"That's right. This is the part where I tell you of all our nefarious plans, so you and your remaining group of loosely trained wonder monkeys can sweep in and save the day. We're now the late night crew at the International House of Pancakes off Route 23, and we plan to taint all the maple syrup, and steal everyone's wallet when they pass out. "  
  
"That could actually work," Marc said, giving him a sarcastic grin.  
  
Logan rolled his eyes. "Tell him to keep his day job."  
  
"You have thirty five minutes to bring the discs to the site of the old Club Exstacy - you know, the mass murder site? Someone's tearing it down and putting in a Krispy Kreme - and we simply want the discs. But if you want to bring Weapon X and whatever kids with powers you can scrounge up, that's fine, but understand this - we don't want a fight. But we are prepared and able to take you all down without breaking a sweat. If you don't want anyone getting hurt, you will do the smart thing and simply give us what we want."  
  
"We do not have the discs you want," Xavier said once more, his patience wearing thin. "You are mistaken. You have the wrong people."  
  
"The clock's ticking, Xavier. You should really burn rubber. Kisses to X." They then heard the hollow click of a severed connection, and the drone of an open line rushed in. It ended for all of them before Xavier dropped the receiver back in its cradle.  
  
"Do you really think they can take us?" Marcus asked. Logan wasn't surprised to find he was looking straight at him.  
  
Logan slumped back in the chair, and sighed wearily. "If they've studied up on us, yeah, you bet. They're cocky, but not without good reason."  
  
"So we're fucked?" Rogue asked.  
  
Logan scowled at her, aware that Jean, if she was here, would chide her for the use of language. He had never cared before, so why did he care now? Just because Jean wasn't here to do it? Maybe, and that very thought was depressing. "Not exactly. They'll be ready for the expected, but not the unexpected. Things didn't go like they wanted earlier in the day 'cause they weren't expecting Bren over there to be a demon. We just need something they haven't anticipated."  
  
"I'll come," Bren said, with a sort of fragile courage.  
  
"No," Xavier said firmly.  
  
"No," Logan agreed, and Brendan looked at him in wide eyed surprise. "They'll expect you this time." he explained. "They underestimated you once; they won't do it again."  
  
Brendan sagged as he sighed, trying to cover up his relief with faked disappointment.  
  
"We have one wild card," Marcus said. He obviously meant himself, but he didn't clarify.  
  
"Let's get Sadiq back in on this, if he's willing," Logan quickly interjected, as it looked like Rogue was about to ask Marc what he meant. "Since he's an Eden kid, I bet they got bupkis on him."  
  
Xavier nodded, lips thinning to a grim line. "I hate to involve him in this. We shouldn't have to fight."  
  
"Yeah, well, we got no choice now do we? We don't have the motherfucking discs." Logan simply imagined Jean giving him a dirty look for the curse, and it made him feel better. Why did they think they had the discs? What the fuck was on them that was so important they felt they had to drop to violent extortion to get them back?  
  
And, hey - if they didn't take the discs in the first place, who did?  
  
"Could we fake it?" Rogue asked. "Give them some discs and hope it buys us some time?"  
  
Marcus shook his head. "They're gonna test 'em, sweetheart. They ain't just gonna take whatever roms we give 'em and beat cheeks. They'll have a laptop there to verify."  
  
"What about those discs Static gave me?" Logan suggested, aware he was grasping at straws. ( But why did Xia make him think of Static? )"Surely they've got official codes on 'em, and they were so fucked over by magnetic pulses, that's probably the only thing they'll be able to immediately verify. We can blame the extensive damage on proximity to Magneto."  
  
Marc continued to shake his head. "We have to assume she downloaded those files with a different 'crypt key. After a security breach like that, you bet your ass they changed it."  
  
"Rogue," Xavier said, affecting his calm "no, the shit is not about to hit the fan, trust me" voice. "Brendan, could you go fetch Sadiq and bring him here? And please, take your time."  
  
"You're gonna plan something without us, aren't you?" Rogue asked, more weary than accusing.  
  
Logan threw up his hands in a type of shrug. "Sorry kiddo."  
  
She made a noise of disgust, getting to her feet and grabbing Brendan's arm, pulling him up from the couch as well. Despite his reluctance, he looked pretty eager to leave. "One of these days you're gonna have to include me," she complained, leaving the room with Brendan in tow. Marc got up and went to the door after them.   
  
"Marcus," Xavier said, still using the same voice. "Could you leave Logan and -"  
  
"No," Marcus interrupted, shutting the door. He leaned against it, and stared at Xavier. "I know about it, and I'm not leaving. In fact, I think you should drop it, Chuck. This is Logan's business, and even if those Organization fuckheads have no respect for his privacy, we still should."  
  
Logan was pretty sure he was too jaded to ever be shocked by anything, but he was now. "I don't get it," he told Marc honestly. "Why?" Why help him, why take the blame, why come to his defense. It made no sense, and he didn't know which specific question to ask.  
  
Marc just shrugged a single shoulder. "You're my friend. Isn't that good enough?" Logan was still trying to believe that - why was that so hard to believe? - when Marc turned his gaze to Xavier, and grimace sharply. "And it's not like you're the only one who ever held back on info around here."  
  
Xavier had the decency to wince slightly. "I appreciate your desire to help Logan, Marcus, but now is not the time for this."  
  
"No, it's not," Logan agreed, his head almost aching with all this information. Xia and the Organization, Weapon X and Marcus, missing discs that could - in all likelihood - destroy what was left of Stryker's group. He levered himself out of the chair, and said, "I need the phone."  
  
"Calling Bob again?" Marcus asked.  
  
Logan shook his head as he approached Xavier's desk. Xavier had moved back, out of his way, and seemed to be giving him a look that was partially apologetic, and partially scolding - this was not over, not by a long shot. "No. We were in New York before, and probably the whole demon community around here know I'm his avatar. I'm wondering exactly what that will bring me."  
  
He hated to do it, but if you had a weapon in your arsenal, there was no point in not using it when you needed it the most. 


	5. Part 5

8  
  
Bob wasn't sure what to expect, which was a problem with dropping in unannounced, but still he hadn't been expecting this - a world made of marble.  
  
Well, at least from where he was standing it was. He had materialized in what looked to be the center of an ancient Roman courtyard, the ground covered in smooth, polished black and white marble; leading to what appeared to be a small temple with large ionic columns of blue marble, with carvings of half naked water bearers etched into them. The sky itself looked marble, with a bright white sky and golden clouds, like hunks of spun metallic threads. Some were shot through with strands of blue, and he assumed those to be storm clouds. "Are we feeling a little garish this week?" He asked aloud. He wasn't sure where he should go exactly, so he looked around until he found a good place to sit. The steps of the temple were a good place, but he spotted a golden apple tree across the plaza, growing out of a square of dirt cut in the marble, and walked over to it.   
  
It was a small tree, maybe seven feet at the highest, with a slender sienna hued trunk and a bushy, full top of bright green leaves. But buried within, glinting like badly concealed knives, were orbs of gold - the fabled, mythical "apples of discord", the golden apple that was supposedly the cause of the kidnapping of Helen and the war of Troy.  
  
Of course, this - like so many myths - was pure bullshit. The fruits of this "tree" weren't apples, and weren't edible - they were almost pure gold ore, and while relatively soft, he was pretty sure anyone who tried to bite into one would break their teeth clean off. Not that anyone would ever get the chance; again, the myth was wrong. She never shared these things with mortals, or even others who weren't mortal - they were just her prized example of genetic engineering, a plant that extracted all precious metals from the earth and extruded them as these small, heavy orbs. If she ever let one of these trees on the Human plane, it would probably destroy the world; people would tear each other apart to have the market on these things.   
  
That was how mortals knew of them. In the old days, Eris used to pick out mortals she didn't like - well, even more so than rest - and let them dream of the "apples" and this miraculous element extracting tree. They would slowly but surely go insane as they tried to find it, or create it, or both. Eris was not a pleasant god by any means, and yet not really malicious - she just didn't care about anyone or anything. Why should she?  
  
Bob sat beneath the tree, which smelled of fresh greenery and raw minerals, and before his butt had a chance to go numb, she appeared standing about three meters away from him, scowling disapprovingly. "You. What do you want?"  
  
"G'day to you too, Eri," he said, giving her a mock salute. He suddenly wished he had worn his swagman's hat.  
  
She liked loose clothing, and she was still sticking to that theme. She was wearing what looked like a crimson silk sari, exposing one chocolate colored leg, and revealing she was wearing gold lace up sandals that tied at her calf, just below the knee. She did like the color gold.  
  
Since he had just sat down, he didn't bother to stand up. He just looked up into her black eyes, which were filled with stars, and asked, "Do you know what Cammy's up to?"  
  
Her full lips, painted gold ( of course ) turned down into the smallest of frowns. " Is he being an asshole again?"  
  
"Yep. I just thought you might want to know we're on his hit list."  
  
"Where's the bulletin there?" She replied blandly. "If he wants to reorder things to suit him, we'd have to be out of the way."  
  
"Indeed. So you're keeping' an eye on him?"  
  
"Why bother? He can't harm me."  
  
"That's just the thing - I'm sure he's working on it."  
  
She arched a perfect black eyebrow, but that was all the reaction he got. "I am strife; we are - as much as it pains me to admit this - cousins of a sort. War would not exist without strife. If I ceased to exist, so would he."  
  
"But you're not the only god of strife."  
  
"I am the most important one."  
  
This was why Bob fully supported all atheist. Most gods were so fucking full of themselves they didn't need worshipers - they worshiped themselves. "Which is why he'd work doubly hard to take you out."  
  
"You should worry about yourself," she remarked coolly. "You're far more vulnerable than I am."  
  
That was her nice way of saying "Wimp, he owns your candy ass". He gave her a sharp smile that didn't reach his eyes. "At least I'm tryin' to do something' about it."  
  
"Is there a reason why you're here?"  
  
He shook his head, unable to keep from smiling. "You really don't care."  
  
"Camaxtli will never be a true threat to me, no matter what she does."  
  
"Cammy's a he again."  
  
"Whatever. It doesn't matter."  
  
"If we're gonna get through his next power play, we have to work together."  
  
She scoffed, tilting her face up towards a non-existent sun. "I do not work with anyone."  
  
"Oh, except with Osiri - "  
  
"Necessity forced my hand."  
  
Bob hopped to his feet, startling her slightly. Apparently she hadn't seen any kung fu movies where guys just arched their back and hopped to their feet without using their hands. Bob had always figured it was done by stuntmen on wires, but then he'd seen Logan do it in real life - and handcuffed, no less - and figured no, it could be done, but only if you were really flexible, strong, or well trained. Although Bob just gave himself a more flexible spine and varying gravitational center. He could almost hear Logan saying "Wuss". "It's forcin' it again, sister. Cammy is alignin' his forces against us 'cause he wants to fill the power vacuum in the higher realms. I'm not gonna sit back and wait for him to show up one day to disperse me. If you could just get your head out of your ass, you'd see the wisdom in this."  
  
She looked down her nose at him, like he was a foul little man, dirtying up her pretty space. Good, because that's just what he wanted to do. Eris was not anyone' s idea of an ideal date or even an acceptable person to sit next to at a party, but she was the lynchpin of the higher realms - if Cammy successfully got rid of her, it would be a free for all. Fear of Eris kept more beings in check than even she herself would ever know. "Being crude will not help you."  
  
"And bein' arrogant will not help you, so I guess we're even."  
  
"Hardly. You're an exile."  
  
He stared at her in disbelief. "So that's it? You won't work with me because I ain't in the hoity toity club?"  
  
She turned her eternal eyes on him. "Are you speaking a known language?"  
  
"I just saved all your privileged asses. How convenient of you to forget that already."  
  
"You'd have done so regardless, Bob. That's the type of being you are."  
  
"So what kind of being are you, Eris?"  
  
"I'm not a being - I'm god."  
  
"Then prove it. Fight for yourself. It's not like you'd ever fight for anything else." Why did he come here? Did he actually think he'd be able to get Eris, Queen of All Assholes, to see the point in saving her own eternal ass? Or was he just going to have to admit to himself he came here hoping she would sign up, and help him save his own ass as well as hers?   
  
As he turned away, ready to teleport himself out of here, she said, "You could disperse him now, Bob. Why don't you?"  
  
He sighed. "I think he's tied in some way to a mortal … er, a former mortal, at any rate. If I kill him, I might kill her too."  
  
"One person?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"So? Those creatures die every second. What is the death of one?"  
  
"You see, this is why I want to tear down all the churches."  
  
Eris cocked her head to the side, like a confused parakeet, and said, "I don't understand."  
  
"No, you don't. Those creatures - many of them - like to believe in Higher Beings, but they don't believe in us as we really are: as selfish, manipulative, and backbitin' as all the rest of them. They should go back to worshipin' cats; at least cats will purr for you once in a while, maybe catch a mouse chewin' on your wiring. It's more than they will ever get from any of our kind."  
  
"They are insects," she said disdainfully.  
  
"And you, my dear queen bee, are about to get swatted down. Don't come to me for help; you've had your chance." And with that, he teleported the hell out of there.  
  
He materialized in one of his favorite thinking spots, a flat mesa of red rock in a really inhospitable ( as opposed to mostly inhospitable ) part of the Great Sandy Desert. The locals at a pub thirty three kilometers southwest knew him as "Odd Bob" the few times he came around. It never failed to amuse him, because that was his nickname back in the Botany Bay days - Odd Bob. He had never been anything but Odd Bob, had he? Odd as a Human, as a demon, as a so called Higher. He could never even get his act together in one area to be considered anything short of an odd duck. It was a good thing really, but sometimes it was like a grain of sand under his fingernail; a small annoyance that grew into a major pain the longer it stayed under his skin.  
  
It was still night here, and the sky above him was spectacular. Unlike the black of Eris's eyes, the sky was a deep indigo velvet, with thousands of bright stars shining against the dark backdrop, diamond dust. It didn't seem as cold and distant as it had when it was being used as her representation of herself. Maybe because the sky and the stars were not really supposed to be dead things, residing in a god far too old and jaded to care much about anything beyond herself and her status quo.  
  
He knew he shouldn't be here. He'd left Helga in a very expensive hotel in Montreal - he promised he'd take her somewhere nice if she just let him get out of bed long enough to check something out. He was sure she was getting on fine, but he was worried about the hotel masseurs, who might not expect such a randy client - a randy client with a tail that just couldn't leave well enough alone, or take no for an answer.  
  
He sat down, and could feel the heat of the day still radiating up from the rock, seeping through his clothes. It was kind of soothing, and he placed his palms flat against the stone, feeling the stored energy quickly warm his hands. He was going to have to make a decision here, whether he liked it or not. Wait for Cammy to make his move and react appropriately, hoping against hope he could handle it. Or take Cammy out now, and hope he didn't kill Jean as well. Or, the third option - hope Cammy hadn't primed her, so when Bob attacked, he'd simply shunt his energy into her … which would mean Camaxtli had returned to the Earthly plane.  
  
"Fuck fuck fuck," he cursed angrily, startlingly a wallaby on the sand below. "Sorry, that wasn't aimed at you," he told it, before lowering his forehead to the warm rock.  
  
This was the definition of damned if you do, damned if you don't. He hated when these things happened. What the fuck was he going to do now?  
  
9  
  
She had wondered when Tom would come after her. Was he getting slower on the uptake, or had he simply had too many other things to do?  
  
"You're not in position," he said, as soon as he set foot on the roof.  
  
"I needed a drink," she said, holding up the water bottle. She didn't bother to turn and face him, she just continued looking down at the empty street and the construction site beyond. In spite of their stealth, she could see almost everyone in their positions, waiting calmly for their orders to engage. For the first time in a long while, she realized she hated this.  
  
She heard him come up behind her, but pause before he got too close. He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, then finally said, "This is about Wolverine, isn't it?"  
  
"What do you think," she snapped, happy for her anger and frustration to finally have a target. "This is pointless, Tom. My god, we were routed by kids this morning - "  
  
"You aborted that attack," he pointed out.  
  
"There was a demon on site - we weren't prepared for that."  
  
"You could have taken him on."  
  
"I am not fighting a child."  
  
"Even if it's a demon?"  
  
"It doesn't matter."  
  
"No. We're prepared for the demon this time."  
  
"I'm not sure Xavier was lying when he claimed not to have the discs," she went on. "He sounded fairly sincere to me."  
  
"If he doesn't have them, who does? Come on, we know he emptied Stryker's office. But that's not what this is about, is it?" He sat down next to her, although he didn't even try and assume the lotus position she had, just stretched his legs out in front him until they were almost dangling off the edge of the roof. "You know Wolverine's a traitor, Xi."  
  
"How can he be a traitor to a cause when he didn't even voluntarily sign up for it?" She said, almost bored already. This was an old argument that had never come to a resolution, and yet they never did get tired of it.  
  
"He did, a long time ago. He knew there was no leaving once he was in."  
  
"He signed up for Ops, an espionage group; it wasn't the Organization, not then. They didn't even know about mutants way back when. And who says you can't leave? What is this, the fucking mafia?"  
  
He sighed heavily, resting his hands on his knees. There was a glint of gold, and she was surprised to see he hadn't taken off his wedding ring yet ( well, the metal could flash just like it did now, revealing his position ). "You know everything he did."  
  
"No, I don't, and neither do you. They made up lots of false records, remember? The originals were destroyed, right along with his memory."   
  
"What is he to you?"  
  
She stared at him in disbelief. "You know damn well what he is to me. He saved my life, he trained me … I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him." She watched Koslowski get into position, and knew she shouldn't be angry at Tom. He'd only been in the Organization for ten years, five years after Logan had disappeared. He was declared "MIA-PD" ( missing in action - presumed dead ), and the Alkali Lake complex incident was written off as a "terrorist attack", but looking through the records, it became obvious what actually happened. The "reconditioning" Logan had gone in there for was more mind fucking and adamantium "layering", and something had gone horribly wrong. Enough of his real self had come back to him, and he freaked out; he attacked, and since Logan was made to destroy, the result was devastating. That was her first clue not everything was right in the Organization.  
  
But was it really her first? Xia knew she was probably lying to herself. She had seen the disparity between the Logan of record and the man she knew; she saw his slow, confusing breakdown, as the false memories and the brain washing began to erode under the steady assault of his own healing factor. She wrote it off as various things, just like they wanted her to do, but now she felt ashamed for going along with it. She could even remember Control telling her that: "You go along to get along." Was there any attitude worse, more appalling than that?  
  
She believed in The Organization … well, the mutant part. But it was hard to believe in something that apparently used and abused one of its own kind.  
  
She noticed Tom twisting his ring on his finger, a nervous habit that she knew meant he was about to say something he knew he might regret. "Did you … did you sleep with him?"  
  
"Oh, Jesus Christ. Why do you men always think it's about sex?"  
  
"Isn't everything about sex?" He gave her a weak smile, obviously attempting a joke. But he realized it wasn't enough, and looked away, a blush creeping up his neck.   
  
Why did she expect him to understand? He grew up in New Mexico, the son of some hippie artist type who couldn't even tell him for certain who his father was, although it never seemed to matter - his existence was comfortable, safe, even when he came out as a mutant.  
  
She could never explain her world to him and hope he'd even begin to get it. She was one of the many unwanted, one of thousands of abandoned female babies in China, left to grow up in a squalid orphanage; the ones adopted by rich Americans were few. And if that dreary, hopeless existence was enough, she was seven years old when the Chinese government began secretly testing children for the X gene. Although she had no idea at the time, she tested positive. They knew she was a mutant long before she did.  
  
She was told she was going to a "training school", and that she should be honored that someone as lowly as her was chosen, but the "school" turned out to be some frightening combination of a prison and a mental institution. They were kept in cells, and she knew from the way she felt odd all the time that they were kept drugged, perhaps so they couldn't use their powers to escape. If they knew their power; she didn't, not for a very long time.   
  
"Students" sometimes "graduated", and she envied them getting out into the real world, beyond the gray cement walls and the drugged food, but she found out much later that it was a euphemism - the graduated students were ones that had been killed, because their powers were useless for the soldiers they were supposed to become, or because their powers were so extreme they were uncontrollable. Still, even death seemed like a more agreeable fate.  
  
Then one night, she heard noises, and barely roused from a drugged sleep to hear a metal on metal noise, a noise she would realize, in retrospect, was metal claws cutting through a locking mechanism. At the time - and she had no idea why - they kept her in the dark a lot, and they had a tendency to blindfold her. That's how she was then, blindfolded on her cot, hands tied behind her back, and she was too drugged to panic. Not that she thought it was anything more than one of their infernal, confusing tests. She heard a man ask her, in perfect Cantonese ( and that was the weird thing - he spoke it without a Canadian accent. She still, to this day, had no idea how he managed that ), if she was all right, if she could walk, and she didn't answer him immediately because she didn't recognize his voice; being blindfolded and kept in the dark so much, she had learned to recognize all of them by sound alone. He then asked her why she was blindfolded, and she had to admit she had no idea - that was just the way it was.  
  
Only when he took her blindfold off, and her eyes had a chance to adjust to light once more, did she see he was a white man, strangely hairy ( although, back then, he was mostly clean shaven - it was just thick stubble ), and she thought maybe she should start panicking. There were no whites here; there had never been non-Asians here at all. She didn't understand what the hell was going on now.  
  
Nor did she understand the bodies in the hallway, the blood … she kept thinking it was a test, but one she couldn't hope to understand. Maybe she was supposed to fight him. But how could she? First of all, the drugs were still heavy in her blood, and because she'd been trying to avoid the drugs as much as possible, she skipped eating for as long as she could, so she was probably all of ninety eight pounds. And he was big; to her, he seemed massive, his chest broad enough that two of her standing abreast wouldn't be as wide as him. That was probably an exaggeration, but not much of one.  
  
She tried to keep up with him, follow him out ( she couldn't believe she was leaving; it had to be a trick ), but at some point she collapsed. She didn't even remember doing that, not until she felt him pick her up and carry her, like she was nothing to him ( and that was undoubtedly true - Logan was always very strong ). She heard him speaking to someone else, but she knew very little English then, and couldn't follow it. But when the cold air hit her face - night air, slightly misty from a previous rain, smelling of damp concrete and earth, auto exhaust and gunpowder - she felt like crying, but didn't have the strength. Was she really outside? Did she finally make it outside? She wanted to look at the sky, but her eyelids were too heavy to open.  
  
He was still speaking English to someone else, but most of it was drowned in a loud noise that seemed to come with a very strong wind - later, she would realize it was the rotors of a helicopter. He got inside something, set her down, and sat beside her, still speaking English to someone, but then he switched back to Cantonese to ask her if she was okay. She made a noise that was most likely agreement, and asked him where they were going. He told her "As far away from this fucking dungeon as Humanly possible," and since this sounded good to her, she just nodded - or tried to, at least. She started shivering violently - the outdoors was not temperature controlled, and neither was the helicopter, apparently - and she heard a woman's voice, perhaps the one Logan had been speaking to, as she spoke English with a sort of singsong lilt ( eventually, she would come to know her as Static/Sloane, a frequent partner of Logan's ). She knew enough English to be aware that Logan had told her "No" about something, and then he put something over her, something warm that smelled of body heat, leather, cigars, and just faintly of blood. It was his coat, which seemed big enough to her to be a blanket, and she lost consciousness soon after, or fell asleep - with so many drugs in her system, it was hard to tell the difference between the two.  
  
She drifted in and out of consciousness several times during the trip, and only later, when she recalled some of those fragmented images, did she realize she basically fell asleep on Logan, her head on his thigh. But rather than move her he simply lived with it ( there wasn't a lot of room in the chopper anyways ) until they landed in what she would eventually realize was a secluded area inside South Korea. She recalled him carrying her out, and then he started barking orders in both English and Korean ( she knew about as much Korean as she did English ), and it was only years later, during a late night drinking session after a successful mission, that Static would tell her that Logan had saved her life. Apparently the field commander had decided, since she was in such obviously poor health and they had taken on many more mutants than intel had anticipated, that she left behind or killed outright, as surely the Chinese authorities would execute her anyways. Logan, technically the on site mission commander, overrode the decision, saying she was going out on evac with him and Static. His exact quote was, "No one gets left behind."  
  
According to Static, Logan was always "hopelessly strange". "He's the only assassin I know who reads poetry," she said, laughing.  
  
Perhaps as "punishment" for taking her out in spite of orders, Logan was assigned to oversee her rehabilitation and training. But if he resented her he never showed it. He even helped teach her to speak English, and he made it really easy since he spoke Cantonese as well. She would soon discover he was fluent in almost every language you could name, and even he wasn't sure how.  
  
That should have been her first clue something was wrong.  
  
That, and the fact that Logan - Wolverine - was generally spoke of with great fear and awe; he was a living legend among the others in the Organization, fearless, ruthless, and not a man you ever wanted to be on the bad side of. And yet, she had seen those strangely noble and gentle gestures ( refusing to leave her behind, giving her his coat, treating her with such obvious kindness ), and couldn't quite reconcile them with a savage killer. It was that dichotomy - the Logan that should have been, and the Logan that was - that would eventually widen the rifts in his memory, and cause them to fly apart. Why the Organization thought they could constantly "clean slate" him, even with his healing factor, was a total mystery to her. And here she considered herself a friend, and she didn't even realize they were completely fucking him over until his very last days.   
  
After a mindfucking he'd be strange, forgetful and irritable, or sometimes as placid as a zombie if it was a really thorough job. Static would attribute it to his "mood swings" - and certainly he could be a very emotional, grumpy guy - or the way he was whenever he lost a training session, but that rang false somehow. She discovered the truth the night before he was sent to the Alkali Lake for some new "counterintelligence" training. He slipped a mysterious hand written note in her coat pocket that simply read "Roman's Grill, eleven thirty".  
  
It didn't take her long to find out that Roman's Grill was a kind of sleazy diner in a really dangerous section of Washington D.C., but that was why he chose it - anyone from the Organization who chose to follow either one of them would stick out like a sore thumb. Not that anyone she knew of could follow Logan successfully; he was simply too aware, his senses too primed. Logan once quoted a writer to her. She couldn't remember his name ( Ellis? ), but the quote was: "Paranoia is just having all the facts." He lived his life like that, even though, apparently, it wasn't his life at all.  
  
She could remember that night like it was yesterday, even though it was about sixteen years ago now. He was sitting in a back booth, back to the wall, facing the front door and the grease and smoke grimed window like a man expecting an armed attack at any moment. Perhaps he was.   
  
He wore his facial hair differently then, but he looked remarkably the same as he did now, judging from the surveillance photos. He'd ordered her something that looked frighteningly greasy, but judging from the messy plate shoved off to the side, he'd had something similar before she'd showed up ( she wasn't that late ). He didn't waste a lot of time getting down to business; he never did.  
  
"After I check out Alkali Lake, I'm goin'," he said, his voice a murmur beneath the loud voices and loud and r&b issuing from a radio in the kitchen.  
  
She was sure she had missed something. "Going? Going where?"  
  
He shrugged, and did a surreptitious scan of the room. "I don't know," he replied, in perfect Cantonese. It was doubtful anyone here could speak Chinese. "But … they took my mind, you see? I've been trying to find out who I am, but … I think they're starting to suspect something. Maybe I said too much to Sloane, I don't know, but I'm starting to feel the noose tighten, you know? I have to get out while I still can."  
  
"They took your mind?" She thought perhaps it was the best way he could say it in the language, but it gave her a chill. At the time, she thought it was just being in that place, full of loud Americans and cigarette smoke ( it was probably the last restaurant in America that allowed smoking ), but in retrospect, she would identify that reaction for what it was - recognition.  
  
"They took everything, my whole life," he said, with a breathless laugh. He ran a hand through his hair, and she realized with a jolt he was distraught. "I thought I could make them … I thought I could find a way to get it back. But I don't know who I am, Xi. I always wake up thinking I'm some place other than I am, and sometimes I scare myself when I look in a mirror, 'cause I don't recognize myself. I … I can't do this anymore; I can't pretend to be what they want me to be."  
  
She knew the Organization was suspicious at best, and megalomaniacal at worst, but she knew of the "mutant underground" operating within it; she knew the plan to make the world safer and better for mutants. She understood that and agreed, and it allowed her to do things on their behalf that she felt counterproductive to the mutant cause, because she knew that it would eventually be nullified: the mundane were stupid and fearful creatures who reacted before they thought. It would be easy to get what they wanted from them.  
  
But until that very moment in time, it had never occurred to her that there were mutants who weren't with the Organization voluntarily.  
  
"What … why are you telling me this?" She finally asked, trying not to show how shaken she was. She knew some mutants would hurt other mutants, but she had no idea it was happening right under her nose.   
  
"Because I want you to come with me," he said, as if he knew it was silly but he couldn't help it. He reached across cigarette burned table and put his hand over hers; she remembered that his palm was warm but his fingers were cold. "You remind me of someone."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"I don't know. But sometimes I look at you, and I think I knew … I knew someone like you, once, a long time ago. And I brought you into this, Xia; I should help you get out."  
  
He would never know - just like Tom would never understand - that he was her hero, and always would be. He brought her - a doomed sixteen year old girl - back out into the world again; he let her see the sky. But the Organization took care of her, gave her a place and a purpose; it was the family she never had. She had a secretive life, yes, occasionally a bloody one, but she was well taken care of, and unlike other mutants, she didn't have to live in fear. She was safe with them. But at that moment in time, she felt completely torn - her hero or her family. Her screwed up, amnesiac hero or her lying, treacherous family. It would have been funny if it wasn't so sad. "I can't," she had told him, feeling on the verge of tears for the first time in a long while. "I don't want to go out there, into the world." And she didn't; she wasn't ready for it, and it had never been hers.  
  
He squeezed her hand reassuringly. "I'll take care of you," he whispered, reverting to English. The worst part of that was he meant it.  
  
She shook her head, and aware that she was going to start crying and didn't want to do it in front of him, she got up, stealing her hand from beneath his. She saw the heartbroken look on his face, and it made something in her chest clench, a muscle she didn't know she had, and it hurt. "I won't come after you," she told him, which she thought was probably the best thing she could say. "I'll never find you." And with that, she ran out of the diner, and never saw Logan again.  
  
Until now, of course, in still frame photographs and security footage. The slight change in facial hair was the only visible difference in his outward physiognomy; he was still the same man she left in the diner sixteen years ago. If he could remember her, he wouldn't recognizer her now - then, she was a still naïve twenty year old girl. Now she was thirty five and as jaded as they came, married to Tom here, for better or worse. And lately, it had all been worse.   
  
Tom's communicator crackled, and she heard Harris say, "Visual confirm on eagle. Moving to target."  
  
He pulled his comm off his arm, and responded, "Confirm." Eagle was the code name for Xavier and his people. As Tom put the comm back, he climbed to his feet, and held a hand down towards her. "I'm gonna need you in position, Atomic."  
  
She sighed, and grabbed his hand, allowing him to help her stand up. The bitterest irony of them all was she was assigned to take out Weapon X - Logan - if he showed up. She could; her power allowed her to hurt Logan, and he couldn't even touch her. It was why they kept her in the dark back in China; her body was like a solar battery, and she could channel the energy it stored into a type of "force field" that covered her from head to toe. It was impervious to all physical objects, and so far any other weapon they threw at her; it was theorized she could survive in the vacuum of space as long as she had her field up. It was repulsive too, much like hitting a charged electric fence, and she could use it as a weapon when she hit people. It was Logan who taught her how to use it as a weapon, in fact. And now she was going to have to use that knowledge against him.  
  
That wasn't the worst thing, though. The worst thing was she lied to him - she said she'd never come after him, and here she finally had - and yet he would never know.   
  
At least, if she was going to have to try to kill him, he could know why. 


	6. Part 6

10   
  
They were expecting him, that was a given. So Logan insisted on going in alone at first.  
  
Club Exstacy was no longer where it was supposed to be; it was a construction site now, a small rectangular framework of girders springing up from a cement foundation, a boxy building to be, maybe a few weeks from completion. Of course there were no workers here now, and even though he could smell people, he knew they weren't the guys laying the foundation. They probably didn't smell like gun oil.   
  
The sky was a pale gray, the color of concrete, as the dying sun reflected off the bottom of clouds as thick as cotton wool. It felt like they were due for an electrical storm, and he was sort of hoping it would come in now. Chaos was always good; it made him feel at home.  
  
Someone had set fake "road work" cordons up at the head of the street, which was probably why the entire block was deserted. He got an amusing mental image of one of the snipers dressed in the orange vest and yellow hard hat of street workers, waving his stop sign and telling everyone to take an alternate route. Of course, they'd probably need to be a sniper to avoid being shot at by angry drivers.  
  
He walked down the center of the empty street, holding his arms open at his side. They had a clear shot if they wanted to a waste an adamantium bullet, but he didn't think it would go down that way. They knew it was a waste of a good bullet. "Come on," he shouted, listening to his voice rebound off the buildings. " We gonna do this thing or what?"  
  
He heard the rustle of cloth, of people shifting slightly even though they continued to hold their positions. They were obviously holding to radio silence - smart where he was concerned - but irrelevant, as he now knew where they all were.   
  
There were twelve of them - one on every available roof, staking out sniper positions, meaning five were up above. The remaining seven were spread out between alleys and concealed in shadows of the construction site, effectively surrounding anyone who came down the street, making it a sniper's corridor that would be nearly impossible to move through unscathed. He had to give them credit for that; that was excellent planning.   
  
"That's far enough, Wolverine," a man's voice insisted, coming from the construction site. He stopped where he was, and let the man come out.   
  
He was a tall, dark haired guy, probably in his early thirties, fairly well built and wearing the now ubiquitous black body armor. He was not aiming a weapon at him, and that made Logan instantly suspicious - he must have had some mutant power that he thought could sustain him in any physical conflict. "Where are the discs?" He demanded. "And where are the others? Surprise is impossible."  
  
He nodded. "I know." Now here was the gamble. "Where's Xia?"  
  
The man's handsome face seemed to briefly spasm, a tic of shock, and his blue-green eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What did you say?"  
  
"Yer not deaf. You heard me. I know she was on the scene earlier. Is she here now?"  
  
"No."  
  
"You're lying." He could smell his nervousness, his fear. He didn't want her talking to him - why?  
  
He heard the rustle off to the left, before she said, "I'm right here, Logan."   
  
He glanced over to see her looking as she had before, in Brendan's memory. Still clad in body armor, her short black hair combed back severely, highlighting her almond shaped hazel eyes and her dark red slash of a mouth. He felt the same cold shock of recognition in his belly that he got when he saw her in Brendan's thoughts. She seemed to look at him with a great deal of sadness. "Do you remember me, Logan?" She asked.  
  
"Don't talk to him," the man snapped.  
  
Logan opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. After a moment, he tried again. "I don't know. Did you know me?"  
  
"The discs, Wolverine," the man insisted obnoxiously.  
  
But she ignored him too. She didn't have any weapons either. "I did."  
  
"What - who was I?"  
  
*Logan* he heard Xavier say in his head. *Something's wrong. I can't read her*  
  
*Get out of my fucking head and mind your own business* he thought angrily.  
  
"You were my hero," she replied.  
  
He thought for a moment she was mocking him, but no, she wasn't. He was so confused he didn't know how he should react or what he should say. "Xia, don't do this," the man told her angrily. "He's nothing anymore, a fragment of a Human being. His brains are fucking scrambled eggs - he's a complete head case."  
  
"Don't you talk about him that way," she snapped, glaring at him. "What happened wasn't his fault."  
  
"What happened?" He repeated, wondering if there'd be some clarification.  
  
She turned her strangely kind eyes on him, and he suddenly felt … what? He wasn't really sure, except he trusted her; he knew that much. "Stryker. He was a butcher. We're glad he's dead."  
  
The man didn't contradict her, although he seemed to be radiating waves of hate towards him. "Why did you let him do that to me?" He asked, although he wasn't sure which one of them he was addressing.  
  
"I didn't know," the woman claimed. "I was a moron. I suppose that Control had an excuse, that he thought it best for some self-serving reason, but that fuck's dead too. I'm not sorry about that either."  
  
*Logan - * Xavier began.  
  
*I said shut up* he roared inside his own head. Xavier fell silent, so he must have been paying attention this time.  
  
"The discs," the man snapped. "Do you have them or not?"  
  
"No," he shot back. "We don't. When we got there all we found was the hard copies. Don't you think I'd have ripped through a disc if we found one, and hunted down your scrawny asses? They were gone when we got there, and I think I finally figured out who took them."  
  
"Who?" Xia asked. The man was glaring hatefully at him, sure he was lying.  
  
"Mystique."  
  
The man snorted derisively, but Xia studied him for a moment. "The shapeshifter who broke into Oyama's office?"  
  
Who the hell was Oyama? But rather than ask that, he pressed on. "I figure she beat us there - I smelled her there, but I thought it was from earlier; the place just reeked of panic at the time - and took the discs, but left the hard copies 'cause they were irrelevant, just printed out crap on the discs. I figure that's why missed out on a lot of important files - my files - because they were on the discs and not printed out."  
  
The man snorted derisively. "You think your records still exis -"  
  
"I thought Mystique was working with you people."  
  
It was his turn to scoff. "Hardly. That bitch only works for Magneto - if for him."  
  
"And you expect us to believe that?" The man said, sneering.  
  
"Quiet, Tom," she said. Tom? Obviously not his code name. "You can look me in the eye and honestly say you don't have the discs, Logan?"  
  
"Yes, I can. We don't have them, we've never had them. Don't you think we'd have acted on them if we did?"   
  
He held her gaze for a long time, even while Tom impatiently shifted his weight from foot to foot, and finally she nodded. "You don't have them."  
  
"You can't believe - " Tom began petulantly, but Logan was aware that things were about to go completely wrong, and it had nothing to do with him.  
  
He heard the thud of bodies on the roofs, the "whoomp" of Rags ( who would apparently do just about anything for a hundred bucks and a good word put in with Bob ) teleporting these guys to unpleasant places, and he knew by the way Tom's eyes widened he'd heard something too. "Stop!" Logan shouted, thinking the very same thing. Maybe he shouldn't have told Xavier to leave him the fuck alone. "The fight's off!"  
  
But obviously the right people weren't hearing him, as a shot rang out from several of the places where there were still snipers conscious - and one of them was obviously Scorpion, as a bullet whizzed by him, headed for Tom.  
  
It never hit its target. Xia stepped in front of her, almost shimmering slightly, like a wave of heat in the desert, and the bullet just seemed to bounce off an invisible wall and ricochet away.  
  
Tom, beyond her, was still furious. He let out a roar of rage, and Xia, still shimmering slightly, turned and shouted, "No, don't!"  
  
But it was too late there too. His eyes had turned white, much like Storm's, and he raised his clenched fists …  
  
… and the ground beneath their feet started tearing part.  
  
The asphalt was suddenly made of spider web cracks, emanating from where Tom and Xia were standing, and Logan would almost swear he could feel the pavement squirm beneath his feet like a living thing as the road started to tear itself in two, shaking the ground so badly that not only could he barely keep his balance, but he could hear bolts and screws being shaken out of metal girders. Glass panes were starting to explode as if shot, vomiting glass all over the crumbling street. Apparently demons weren't the only ones who could cause earthquakes.  
  
"Stop it!" He shouted, but he was pretty sure earthquake boy couldn't hear him, not over all this noise. So he tackled the psychotic earthmover boy, and as they hit the ground the tremors seemed to lessen in intensity. He pulled back his arm to punch him - he wanted to see him cause earthquakes while unconscious - but that was when something hit him in the side of the head. It wasn't just a fist, but something that almost felt electric; it stung like a motherfucker, and made his vision white out for a second. When his vision returned to normal, he was on his side on the street, which was rapidly fracturing beneath him, like a thin sheet of ice. Xia was standing over him, looking pained and sad, her hand clenched into a fist that continued to shimmer. What the hell was her power?  
  
It was then that everything stopped. Not just the earthquake, but everything else; Tom froze in the middle of getting to his feet. All of them had ceased to move, save for him and Xia, who looked towards the head of the street. Logan followed her gaze, and saw Xavier parked at the head of the road, which was now split down the middle with a four foot wide rift. Xavier was just beyond it, and probably wasn't going to risk getting any closer. Wrinkles gathered in the corners of his eyes, like "holding" all these minds pained him. "What was the point of all this?" Xavier asked her. "All this destruction and pain for computer discs?"  
  
Xia returned his gaze defiantly. "You'd better let my people go, Xavier. You can't control my mind, and there hasn't been a weapon invented that can punch through my forcefield."  
  
Forcefield? So that was her power. And that was what was keeping Xavier from getting to her mind? Weird. "We didn't come here to fight," Xavier replied, although it was a lie. "You hurt my people and threatened children for something we do not have."  
  
"We never would have hurt your children," she snapped. Logan believed her, but figured she was just speaking for herself. "Desperate times call for desperate measures."  
  
Logan climbed to his feet, feeling strangely torn. He felt like he knew Xia better than Xavier, but he didn't know her at all.  
  
"You couldn't just ask?" Xavier replied icily.   
  
"You don't understand what's at stake."  
  
"Why don't you tell me?"  
  
Her lips thinned to a grim line, and for some reason she glanced at him before replying to Xavier. What was it between him and this woman? "Stryker apparently had a back up plan if his secret "dark Cerebro" plan didn't work. All we know about it is its name - Armageddon - and that it exists in secret, hidden files on those discs - and they are the only copies. We need it back before the mundanes find it; we need to destroy it."  
  
"Mundanes?" Xavier repeated archly, obviously disapproving of the term. " Do you really expect me to believe you would destroy it?"  
  
Her look turned molten. "Unlike the mundane Organization, we would."  
  
"Wait a minute," Logan interjected. "The mundane Organization? Aren't you all the same one?"  
  
Her look softened when she looked at him. "No, not anymore. When we found out what Stryker was up to - after the fact - we broke off from them. You may not know this, Xavier," she turned her gaze back to him, and it hardened instantaneously. "But the mundane only Organization still exists - you didn't destroy it, just drove it deeper underground. It is still operating under the mandate of destroying mutants, and now we are fighting them. We no longer have to pretend we're working with them, but we no longer have a government mandate either - we are their prime targets."  
  
"So now you're engaged in a war with each other," Xavier said, and he sounded bored by the very notion. "That is a shame, but we want no part of it."  
  
"Whoa, wait a minute," Logan said, not sure he heard him right. "They got something like that dark Cerebro shit on stand by. Tell me if I'm wrong, but didn't that almost kill all mutants everywhere? Shouldn't we be tracking this down?"  
  
Xavier's eyes were cool and distant. "You're assuming she's being completely honest with us."  
  
"I am," she insisted angrily. "I'm surprised you'd be prejudiced against your own people."  
  
"I'm surprised you'd shoot your own people," Xavier threw back.  
  
"Oh yeah, fucking wonderful, a pissing contest," Logan spat, disgusted with both of them, all of them. "Mystique prob'ly has the discs, Chuck. Do you know what will happen if she finds those files? We have to find her before she can."  
  
Xavier gave him a look that was somehow both angry and patronizing at the same time. "I have been searching for all of them, Logan. Erik has been very careful to shelter them."  
  
"This is such bullshit," Logan replied, feeling the heat of anger make his face flush. He'd never claim what they did to Scott and Storm was right ( well, maybe Scott ), but just to ignore this because you hated the people and their ideology seemed counter to everything Xavier supposedly preached.  
  
"If their intentions were so benign, they could have asked, not resorted to attempted murder." Xavier said.  
  
"If we intended to kill them, they would be dead," Xia replied matter of factly. "I didn't support that line of action, but I was overruled."  
  
"How lovely for you," Xavier said, with great sarcasm. "Since we do not have your discs, or interest in your private war, I assume we're free to leave, and that you will leave us alone."  
  
Xia matched Xavier's disdainful glare with one of her own. "Your people are at stake, Xavier, and you don't care, do you? Is it because your friend may hold the cards?"  
  
"This conversation is over," he replied with asperity, steering his wheelchair around a gap in the broken road and turning his back on her. "I will release your people as soon as we've left. I assume you won't be overruled in the decision to come after us."  
  
Logan felt her eyes on him before he glanced at her, and her look was back to the previous one, wistfully sad. "Keep fighting the good fight, Logan," she said, as if this was the last time she'd ever see him. She put her hand on his arm, and he could feel the field of energy still around her, but this time it didn't sting. It was just a gentle touch, friendly, but very quick, as she pulled her hand away rapidly, as if he had burned her. "I'm glad … I'm glad you made it out."  
  
He stared at her curiously, even as she turned away. "Do you want out?" He wondered.  
  
She paused near the figure of Tom, but did not look back at him. "No. I made my choice fifteen years ago. I'm still not sure if it was the right one, but I live with my decisions. You taught me that much."  
  
He continued to stare at her, wanting to say something, to ask so many questions … but they all seemed to tangle in his brain, a mental traffic jam, and he couldn't separate a single thing out. She could be playing him; it was certainly possible. But he didn't believe she was. Why didn't he believe it?   
  
Logan left, because he didn't know what else to do. But a part of him didn't want to.  
  
11  
  
Bob appeared on the black beach, underneath the lime green sky, and was not surprised to find Cammy waiting there for him. He was sitting on a blanket that looked like the bloody side of a carved skin, eating what looked like an apple … except apples didn't usually bleed when you bit into them. He was wearing nothing but black shorts, showing off a lean and bronzed body, and when blood dribbled down his chin, it was instantly absorbed by his skin. "So, are you gonna try and kill me yet?"  
  
He sighed and looked out at the clear purple ocean. It was beautiful, even if it did clash with his sky. "I've came to make a deal with you."  
  
A black and white shell scuttled by on its eight slender legs, and Cammy chewed thoughtfully as he considered it, letting the excess blood drip on his bare leg. "Bob, the god of strangely high moral principals for a hedonist, stooping to make a deal with me? I am shocked, I tell you, shocked." He grinned savagely at him, displaying his bloody teeth.  
  
Bob scowled down at him, wanting very badly to smash his face in. "Are you going to act like a complete fuckhead, or are we gonna talk?"  
  
"You have nothing I want," he said dismissively, turning his bloody gaze out on the ocean once more. Something gleamed under the surface half a mile out.  
  
"Except, of course, your continued existence."  
  
Cammy chuckled. "You won't kill me, Bob. That's the sad thing about you. You won't do it in cold blood, even if you know they're going to destroy everything."  
  
"I want to guarantee the safety of Jean Grey."  
  
That made him chuckle even more. "You and your pets … "  
  
"Where is she, Cammy? What did you do to her?"  
  
And it was just then that they both felt it, the brief inversion of a segment of reality, and there, standing on the other side of Cammy, right across from Bob, was Eris.  
  
Cammy jumped to his feat, and Bob could feel his sudden spike of fear. "What are you doing here?"  
  
Eris's star field eyes gazed at Cammy impassively, like he was an insect lower. "Taking care of a problem."  
  
Bob knew, the instant before she did it, what she was going to do. "No!" He shouted, and called up his powers, ready to throw them all at Eris, but it was far too late.  
  
Cammy didn't even have time to scream as he simply flew apart, like an exploded digital photograph; reduced to small pixels that just flew away from impact point at the speed of light, then collapsed back into itself, becoming a pinpoint black hole before disappearing into nothing at all. The remains of the bloody apple fell to the blanket and rolled into the surf, leaving a slime trail of crimson.  
  
"What have you done?!" He shouted, so enraged he could feel the power tingling in his fingertips, and saw the world through a filter of blue.  
  
Her look remained irritatingly bored, as if she hadn't just killed Camaxtli. "You said he was a threat, and it was obvious you weren't god enough to do what needed to be done."  
  
"You - Jean!" He knew being apoplectic completely crooked his ability to articulate, but right now he didn't give a fuck. He wanted to punt her royal ass to the next dimension over, but they both knew, at worse, he could maybe sting her a bit - she owned his ass. "Do you realized what you may have just done?!"  
  
"Killed an insect? About ten thousand died between when I showed up and now. Who notices one more?"  
  
He couldn't even begin to answer that, as he knew he'd just start spitting out Sumerian cuss words. The world was pulsing blue now, and he could feel the excess energy making his hair stand on end. "He may have had a sympathetic link with her - you may have shunted his energy onto the Earthly plane!"  
  
"The Earthly plane is your problem, not mine," she said airily, with a dismissive wave of her hand. "It's not like anyone even goes there anymore."  
  
"I do!" Not the response he wanted to give, but he settled for it.  
  
"You always were behind the times, Bob," she said, then added archly, "You're welcome." She then teleported out of there, leaving him alone on the empty beach.  
  
Since this was Cammy's creation, it would soon cease to exist. Already the horizon looked a little fuzzy, like it was starting to erode under the pressure of the new reality. Bob closed his eyes and tried to swallow his rage, but he couldn't.  
  
Fuck, he was an idiot. He should have known how mercurial Eris was; he should have known, if she decided he was telling the truth, that she wouldn't wait to be defensive. Shit, shit, shit!  
  
Had he killed her? Or had he done even worse than that?  
  
He let out a scream of rage that had enough power behind it to shatter the world. Luckily, it didn't matter anymore.  
  
12  
  
Logan mentally cursed himself out as a moron for the fifth or sixth time - he'd actually lost count - but after his third circling of the block, he went into the diner.  
  
It was a particularly greasy spoon that called itself the Night Owl diner, and since it was a quarter to two in the morning - right before the bars closed - there were only three people inside, not counting the waitress sitting at the end of the counter, reading a paperback thriller, or the counter woman talking with the cook in the back. He bet things got hopping when the bars closed, and the drinkers decided they needed coffee ( caffeine didn't sober up anyone; it just made you a more alert drunk ) or a big stack of pancakes. He bet those were fun to throw back up.  
  
There was a single booth in the back not exposed to any of the large windows ( covered on the inside by security grating ), that gave you coverage of the entire room. Of course Xia was sitting there, warming her hands on a cup of coffee that looked untouched. She had abandoned her obviously needless body armor ( it was probably a regulations thing that she wore it at all ) for more casual clothes, attempting to blend in with the "mundanes". She wasn't perfectly successful - she managed to look elegant and aloof, even in a jeans jacket and a Bill The Cat t-shirt.  
  
As he slid into the seat opposite her, he had a sudden sense of déjà vu, like he'd been here before, sitting across from at a tiny, worn table in a sad restaurant, but he couldn't quite place it. It was a sensation detached, with no further data to tie to it. It was just as likely as it was unlikely; it could have simply been simply something he wanted to believe.  
  
"Quake boy isn't here?" He asked, although he already knew he couldn't be. He had circled this block, twice on foot and once on the roofs, just looking for surveillance of any sort. He was such a paranoid bastard he sometimes shamed himself. He was just glad no one saw him do it.  
  
She looked mildly surprised. "How do you know his code name?"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
Her lips curved up into a fragile smile. "You didn't know that was his code name."  
  
"Quake?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Appropriate." Just out of curiosity, he asked, "How much damage could he do?"  
  
She shifted in her seat, as if this was an uncomfortable topic. "He can hit ten on the Richter scale."  
  
"Whoa." That was "everything falls to fucking pieces" top of the scale. "Has he ever, you know, taken out a city?"  
  
She glanced down at her untouched cup of coffee, and he realized with just a bit of surprise that yes, he had. "Once, down in South America a couple of years ago. Not one of our proudest moments."  
  
That was an interesting choice of pronoun. "He's your partner?"  
  
She nodded. "And a bit more." She clinked her gold band wedding ring on the chipped porcelain coffee mug.  
  
"That's gotta be an interesting home life." He had said it as a joke, but he knew it had fallen flat the second it left his mouth. He decided to stick to a safer - and more relevant - topic. "Why did you want to meet me?"  
  
The ride back to Xavier's after the aborted confrontation was amazingly tense. Marcus really resented Xavier "grabbing" his mind - he'd had a thing about telepaths since Shrike ( couldn't blame him there ), and Bob didn't count, because Bob was Bob. That didn't make a lot of sense to people who didn't know Bob, but hell, it barely made sense to them, and they knew him. Logan resented Xavier just dismissing the claims of those people because they were bad guys - okay, yeah, the shooting and the threatening of the school was way out of line, but that's what they dealt in, violence. And they thought Mystique was "still" working with them, and Magneto's former friendship with Xavier was well known with everyone. Xavier was ticked off with him about even "buying it for a second", and actually had the gall to chide him, like he was one of the kids. "You should know better than that," he had scolded him. "You, of all people, should know the level of manipulation they're capable of."  
  
He had shot back angrily. "Oh, you mean the stuff they did to me? The stuff you conveniently forgot to tell me about?"  
  
Xavier had fixed him with his cold eyes, and said, "Don't be childish."  
  
That was it. That had been the final fucking straw.  
  
Marcus offered to give him a lift out of there, because he was "so getting the fuck out of Dodge", and even offered him a place to stay, but Logan had to turn him down. He didn't feel like being around anybody, not even as a good a friend as Marc was; he didn't think it was a wise idea for him to be around people for a while. He just intended to change his clothes and go ( he told Xavier to go fuck himself when he decided they should "talk" ), and he was about to leave when he got the phone call. From a pay phone, the message was simple, anonymous, and to the point. "Logan, if you want to talk, I'll be at the Night Owl Café at one forty am tonight. I'll be alone, and hope you will be too." He had recognized her voice, and knew it could very well be a trap. But he didn't tell Xavier, or anyone else for that matter. This was his thing to sort out, and he would do it by himself. When others got involved, it always ended up very badly.  
  
He'd been sitting in a bar down the street for the last few hours, being partially deafened by a bad blues rock band and having his taste buds deadened by what passed for popular American beers, and trying to decide what precisely was bothering him. Xia got to him; she got to him hard, and he wasn't sure why. Stryker had gotten to him too, but that was totally different. He may have not known him, but there was a sense of pain, hate, and fear attached to his name. With Xia, all he got was a curious sense of … responsibility, like he should be protecting her. But why the fuck would a woman with an indestructible forcefield need protecting?  
  
When he became convinced that she had come in alone, and that there were no "blinds" set up, waiting to ambush him, he came in. But he also knew that, if his adamantium claws couldn't cut through it ( and she didn't seem worried about that, did she? In fact, he had finally decided what that look was on her face, when she knocked him off Tom. It was a "please don't make me hurt you" look, one he had never seen before ), he'd be completely fucked if she decided to attack him. His only hope would be in wearing her out, so she'd drop her forcefield for a second; even half a second would have done.  
  
But, much to his surprise, he found himself not wanting to hurt her either.  
  
"I just wanted to see you," she said, without much strength. She wouldn't meet his eyes, and seemed embarrassed. "I mean, I never believed you were dead when they said you were - I didn't think you could ever be killed - but … I don't know. The years went by, and it was like you'd dropped off the face of the earth. I guess I prepared myself for the possibility that you were dead. I was relieved to hear you were still around, but I guess I didn't actually believe it until I saw you in the flesh. It's funny how the mind works, isn't it?"  
  
"Is that a joke?"  
  
She looked up, and the shock on her face was genuine. "No. Oh god, I didn't mean it that way."  
  
He wanted to be angry; he didn't want to believe her. But for some reason, he was having a hard time doing it. "How do you know me? Who was I?"  
  
"You were Logan. You were the man who saved my life, by rescuing me from a place in China where they were training mutants to become soldiers."  
  
"The mutant cold war." That was how he'd help bring the thing that became Reaper into the country, wasn't it? Stupid ass countries trying to make their own mutant weapons. Well, it looked like Canada had inadvertently won that one. "But I was … I was a killer, wasn't I?"  
  
She looked down again, shook her head, as the waitress finally spun on her stool towards them. "Hey hon, can I get you something?" The waitress asked, snapping her chewing gum loudly. He could smell the Dexedrine she was absolutely flying on; probably helped keep her going on these late night shifts.   
  
"No, thanks," he snapped hastily, and then asked Xia emphatically, "Tell me the truth. I was an assassin, wasn't I?" Only after he spoke did he realize he'd just said it in Cantonese.  
  
She ran a hand through her close cropped hair, messing it up, and he could see fine lines in the corners of her eyes, dark circles beneath, hints of age that struck him as anomalous. If he did remember her, he remembered her younger. But how much younger? She looked to be only in her twenties now, although something behind her eyes told him she was older. "In a way, we all were," she finally said, also replying in Cantonese. "But you were the first man I ever trusted, and you never gave me a reason to doubt you. You still haven't."  
  
This wasn't what he was expecting. He had braced himself for the worst, to be told he was the bloodthirsty animal Stryker had implied he was, and getting this was somehow more jarring. "Was I … was I Stryker's lackey? What did I do for him?" He couldn't shake the fear that he was his personal attack dog, and it was slightly unsettling that that bothered him more than the assassin bit.  
  
He wondered what that said about him, then decided he didn't want to know. 


	7. Part 7

"I never even saw you with Stryker," she told him, shoving the cup of coffee aside. "I'm not sure I ever saw him at all, except on the news. He was only "hands on" with certain people."  
  
"Lucky me," he said sarcastically, running a hand through his own hair. He was nervous, and he abhorred the feeling. Wasn't he a big tough guy? He couldn't handle words that might not be true? ( But the worst part was they could be true, wasn't it?) "I was, uh, " he didn't even know how to say this. "I was their killing machine, wasn't I? I found out about Chimera."  
  
She canted her head to the side, and clearly combed her memory before finally saying, "Oh, right, the mutant that freaked out in England."  
  
"He didn't just freak out. He was experimented on like I was. He was supposed to be my replacement without adamantium. It didn't work."  
  
"I heard he was insane."  
  
"He went insane over what they did to him. I guess he wasn't the only one, was he?" Logan dry washed his face, and wished this place served beer. He didn't care that he'd made himself queasy on bad beer, waiting for Xia to show; beer was comfort food, so to speak. He let his hands fall to the fake linoleum table, and to his surprise she reached across and put her hand over his. His first instinct was to withdraw it, and he partially did, but then he stopped himself. Her touching him wasn't so bad. Her hand was slightly cold, in spite of the residual heat from the coffee cup, and he knew she didn't have her field up.  
  
"You were," she began, but paused, as if unsure how to finish that. "You are the strongest man I've ever known. I can't believe you were ever crazy."  
  
"I was. I might be now, I have no idea. Tom was right, I'm a head case."  
  
"He was not; he was just being a jealous asshole."  
  
"Jealous? Of what?"  
  
She licked her lips nervously, glancing off to the side as if there was something there to see. "You have quite the legend, you know. You're hard to live up to."  
  
He had a feeling that wasn't the entire story, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to pursue it further. "You're being truthful with me about the discs, aren't you?"  
  
The confusion that briefly flashed through her eyes seemed genuine. "Of course. Why do you ask?"  
  
"Because Xavier had a point. Shooting Scott and Storm seemed … excessive."  
  
She colored slightly, a dark blush giving her porcelain hued skin a glow that had nothing to do with her powers. "You once told me that most people's motives were based on a few simple things. It wasn't always the reason, but they were more often that not. The psychology of people was not as complicated as you might think."  
  
The waitress got up from her stool and went to serve a guy who'd just come in, still wearing his mini-mart uniform and looking like he really wanted to punch something. They switched back to English.  
  
"I said that?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Bullshit."  
  
That made her smile once more, briefly squeeze his hand. "You don't remember it? The core motivations of people who step outside the law?"  
  
He was going to repeat the bullshit, but then suddenly, he remembered. "Money, gain in status or power, sex, revenge." How the fuck did he know that? Was he guessing?  
  
She smiled approvingly. "See, you do remember." But her smile faded quickly. "Which do you think applied to Clive?"  
  
Clive? The name of the sniper. Maybe he was the British guy on the phone that Xavier couldn't read. "Revenge?"  
  
She nodded. "Many of them blame Xavier's people for the collapse of the Organization, and the rift that's caused us to split apart. It was a method of counting coup, I suppose. There is a majority in those of us remaining who want to kill Xavier, and … punish you."  
  
"Punish me? What, do they want to spank me? Should I assume the position?"  
  
That made her laugh, and she seemed relieved that he took it that way. "No, unless you really want to. It's just that some of them see you as a traitor for leaving when you did."  
  
"Yeah, why would I leave a group that vivisected me alive? Makes no sense."  
  
She winced, and now covered his hand with both of hers. It was a gesture both familiar and slightly intimate, and it made him feel uncomfortable. "I really didn't know what was going on. I couldn't believe … no, I didn't want to believe they would hurt another mutant so badly. They were the closest thing I had to family."  
  
"So what was I?"  
  
"I was scared and stupid. I know that's no excuse - "  
  
"Not really, no."  
  
She scowled at him for that, but not for long. "I just couldn't believe anyone could really hurt you, Logan, not like that. I mean … when you have a power that makes you virtually indestructible, you don't have a lot of people in the way of role models. You were mine. I should have known something was wrong, but I just didn't want to know. I mean, if you were vulnerable … where did that leave me?"  
  
"Fucked. Right along with the rest of us." He pulled his hand from beneath hers, but almost instantly regretted it. He wasn't sure why. "I'm gonna tell you some things, and you're gonna tell me if I'm right or wrong, okay? I was a killer for the Organization?"  
  
She hesitated, but he gave her a fierce stare; he didn't want explanations, he didn't want gray areas - right now he just wanted black and white. He could bother with the details later. "Yes."  
  
"I was made into Weapon X, to kill other mutants?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"They fucked over my head to make me controllable?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I didn't join voluntarily, I was taken?"  
  
She paused, and he could tell by the way her eyes seemed to turn inward, the way her lips parted slightly, that he may have just stumped her. "Into what, Weapon X?"  
  
"No. I mean yes, but also into the Organization."  
  
"You didn't volunteer into Weapon X,."  
  
Okay, she just parsed that. He stomach burned in anxiety, and he knew he'd really had too many bad beers waiting for her to show. "What about the Organization?"  
  
She shook her head helplessly. "As far as I know … no, not exactly."  
  
"What do you mean exactly?"  
  
"The Organization, from what I was told, was once a deeper than black ops espionage department. You know how the NSA is more secretive than the CIA? Well, this section was more secretive than the NSA and had even less official accountability. I don't know its actual name, only its "code" referral, Ops."  
  
"And I signed up for that?" He didn't want to believe that, and yet, wouldn't that explain so much? He always suspected he was some kind of assassin as well as a spy. Of course, it also sounded like something out of a John LeCarre novel, and he hoped things had gone a little better for him than that.   
  
She looked very dubious. "I think so."  
  
"You don't know?"  
  
"I was led to believe that was the case. But can I prove it? No."  
  
"Who led you to believe that?"  
  
"Control."  
  
"Who was he, anyways?"  
  
"Right hand man of Stryker, usually the hands on manager of the Organization."  
  
"Usually?"  
  
"He died suddenly and mysteriously several months ago. He was found dead in his bed. No violence, no poisons, it seemed as though his heart just stopped. He was healthy, though, only forty six, Stryker had every autopsy test run on him imaginable, but nothing pointed to foul play at all. It was like he just stopped. And considering he was believed to be heartless, the irony was rich."  
  
Hadn't Bob said he'd have to have been dead by now? How had Bob known that? He didn't do it, did he? He could have - he could have just shown up, told him he was dead, and in that instant Control would have been. But he didn't think Bob would do such a thing without a provocation. "Can I assume Control wasn't trustworthy?"  
  
"He was as trustworthy as Stryker."  
  
"So is that a yes?"  
  
She nodded. "They had their own agenda. I'm still not sure if they knew of the mutant underground in the organization or not."  
  
He rubbed his eyes, and tried to make sense of this in his own head. It was difficult to say the least; his mind kept shying away from it, kept focusing on all the holes that made the narrative of his life resemble Swiss cheese. "I was an American spy?"  
  
"No," she instantly replied. "Ops was a North American intelligence agency. From what I understand, it was a joint project split between American and Canadian intelligence agencies in the wake of World War Two. Then, when it became the Organization, Britain joined, as well as Ireland, Australia, Japan, Spain, France, and Mexico, although they weren't exactly interested in intelligence anymore."  
  
"No, they were interested in mutants." He wished that part was surprising, but it wasn't. He felt like such a complete fucking fool he couldn't believe it.  
  
He told himself it was possible it wasn't true, that she could be serving him up a bunch of bullshit, but he didn't believe that. Instinct was telling him that she was being truthful, as far as she knew. Xia wouldn't lie to him; he honestly believed that. Never mind the fact that he didn't know her at all.  
  
Xia leaned forward slightly, spreading her hands flat on the table. "I have to be honest here, Logan. I came here tonight to make a deal with you."  
  
Okay, here it was. He sat back in the vinyl booth, eying her warily. "What kind of deal?"  
  
She took a breath, and seemed to steel herself before continuing. "There has to be some records of yours still in existence. I will do everything in my power to help you find them. Understand that that stands no matter what."  
  
"What do you want from me?" He wasn't being watched; he felt no surveillance on him. But now he knew he should be on alert.  
  
"Your help," she said simply, holding her hands open as if in supplication. "What I told you about project Armageddon is true; what I told you about the Organization splitting in half is also true. The human part now wants to get rid of us - the perennial "we know too much" syndrome."  
  
"Which probably got my mind fried, right?"  
  
She grimaced. "Probably. And I know the others don't trust you, but they don't know you. And you're the best tracker I've ever known. They used to say you could follow someone for days on scent alone; I've never known anyone to escape from you."  
  
In a way, he had been expecting this, but then again, he hadn't. This must have been what being flabbergasted felt like. "You want me to join up with you?"  
  
"Not exactly. Just help me - help us - find those discs, find Mystique. We're not interested in coercing you to stay - the Human half has all the facilities; we just have what we were able to abscond with - and in fact, I'm pretty sure the rest of the group would crucify me if they knew what I was doing right now. But if we're going to get to this thing first, I know we'll need your help."  
  
He felt a sudden surge of lethal rage; he wanted to put his fist through the table and maybe just trash this entire dump. "Some of those fuckers did this to me, Xia," he hissed. She must have seen the hate in his eyes, because she leaned back as if scalded. "Do you really think I would help them?"  
  
"They're not with us anymore. I wasn't about to work with people I knew could betray me if they thought it was in their best interest. They're on their own, freelancing, or whatever the hell. I can't say I care."  
  
He was sure he shouldn't believe her, no matter how sincere she seemed. "You realize I've got no reason to trust you."  
  
She bowed her head in shame, and she nodded in agreement. "I know. I wish I could do something to convince you of my sincerity."  
  
He shook his head and looked away, briefly watching the cook in the back, through the horizontal gash of the pick up window. It smelled like grease and sweat and coffee boiled to the consistency of mud; it smelled like burned bagels and Old Spice, Joy and soda a little too heavy on the syrup. In other words, a normal diner full of normal people, without a hint of gun oil or pre - performance flop sweat. No one was watching them, or even - to the best of his senses - listening. "Maybe you have," he admitted. She had come alone, like she said she would; so had he. Maybe they were half way there.  
  
She glanced up, and he could see the war in her eyes: she wanted to be hopeful, but she didn't dare. "Will you help me, Logan? Not them - just me. You can leave at any time; I assure you no one will harm you." She tried to smile, but it twisted as tears filled her eyes. "I'll take care of you."  
  
She obviously tried to make it a joke, but her voice fractured, and she closed her eyes hard to try and hold back the tears. It didn't work; a couple rolled down her cheeks anyways. Although he had no idea how it applied to them specifically, it was a familiar line, and he realized he must have said that to her … some time. What was she to him? She had conveniently avoid talking to him about that. He couldn't imagine they had ever been lovers; she appeared far too young, and the conflicted feelings he had for her didn't skew that way … did they?  
  
It was impulse to reach across the table and brush away a tear with the pad of his thumb. "Don't cry," he said, knowing it didn't matter.  
  
Oh god, he was a moron. A complete fucking moron.  
  
13  
  
Xavier knew Logan had returned to the mansion last night, but very late. He hadn't been woken up by the motorcycle - which seemed to now be Logan's by default - but simply by his presence in the house. Xavier had ignored it, although he was glad he had come back.   
  
He knew he'd let his temper get the better of him, and lashing out at Logan was probably the worst thing he could have ever done. But he was clearly being swayed by that woman, a woman he couldn't read in any manner, which was suspicious enough on its own. They must have had a connection, as some part of Logan's unconscious mind recognized her, and not in a bad way, but Xavier knew better than to trust her. She was Organization, part of the group that exploited, brainwashed, and mutilated Logan, not to mention shot Scott and Ororo and threatened the school. No matter what she had once been to him, she was little more than a terrorist thug.  
  
But no matter what Logan tried to tell himself, he still yearned to explore his past, to discover who he was and what his life was like before they took it away from him. He could hardly blame him; it was human impulse to want to "know yourself", especially if all your memories were taken from you.   
  
What disturbed him was Logan knew more than he had ever let on - he didn't trust them. Even after all this time, he didn't completely trust them. Xavier knew there would be a problem, as of all of them, Logan seemed to trust Jean the most, and with her gone, he felt even more apart from the rest of them. But what Xavier found the most disturbing of all was that Logan had figured out he was Weapon X … and had never told any of them.  
  
He was fairly certain he'd never told Jean, because he was sure she'd have mentioned it in the strictest confidence. Instead of them, Logan had confided to Marcus, who seemed to be a dubious character at best. To be fair, though, Marcus clearly cared a great deal about Logan; his loyalty to him was unquestionable, and perhaps Logan had intuited that.  
  
Logan was upset with him because he felt he was "holding out" on him. Xavier wished he could tell him how awkward all of this was; how afraid he was of making the trauma worse. Certainly being told he had been groomed to be the ultimate weapon in killing his own people might have been more than he could handle, certainly in the fragile state he was in when he was first brought here.  
  
If Logan ever realized that Xavier knew exactly who he was when he saw the scans of his adamantium skeleton, he'd probably never forgive him.  
  
He'd had contacts in the government for some time. Certainly he'd heard of Wolverine - even Erik had heard about him: death on two legs, a ruthless killer without a conscience, unstoppable, seemingly deathless; a mutant's worst nightmare given form. Of course, some of these tales - and details about Wolverine himself - had been exaggerated in that way that all rumors and second hand information were. But when he ended up here, Xavier had no idea how much of it was true and how much of it wasn't; what was clear was his mind had been damaged quite severely, and his instincts - while often true to his ruthless reputation - didn't fit the profile of a remorseless serial killer. As usual, there was more to the story than had ever been told.  
  
Should he have said something? He knew now he should have been more deliberate in his hints about Stryker. But he didn't regret not telling him about Weapon X - how could you tell a scarred man something like that? "Oh, by the way, while you were under someone else's control, you murdered an awful lot of people. Not to worry, those things happen." Logan had already unsuccessfully attempted suicide several times - it was quite possible if he kept at it, he'd finally get it right.  
  
And what happened then was clearly not his fault. He had control of his body but not of his mind; he'd been telepathically raped so many times his core self was broken into shards, tiny pieces that was still, with the relentlessness of most biological processes, trying to pull itself back together again. The problem was, some of these memories and fragments of memories were coming back almost too quickly and too randomly for Logan to have any hope of making sense of them. He was more lost - and more confused - than ever. He was at sea, and he needed friends and people to help him make sense of it all - and not loyal but morally slippery Marcus, or the even more morally slippery and mysterious Bob. And Jean's "death" - so to speak - had unsettled him even more.  
  
Xavier did not reach out mentally to Logan until he was outside the door of his "room", and even then he only took a telepathic "peek" - it was morning, and there was a good chance he was still asleep. Getting a glimpse of the tortured memories in Logan's mind was not something he relished at any time.  
  
But there was nothing there; no sense of Logan behind the door. He was not asleep, and he was not in his room.  
  
Xavier pushed the unlocked door open, and let his mind roam the grounds, searching for a glimpse of Logan. Just as he feared, there was none; Logan wasn't here anymore.   
  
Not a shock in the scheme of things, as Logan was always here and gone. He'd just been hoping to catch him before he left …  
  
… there was something wrong with his room.  
  
Actually, in most other cases, it would be considered right. It was neat, almost impeccably so, as if no one had ever stayed in here. The bed was made as if no one had slept in it, but the coverlet was slightly rumpled on one side, suggesting someone had at least sat there long enough to make a slight impression. A book sat on the nightstand, the recent translation of Beowulf by Seamus Heaney that Logan had borrowed from the "library" and hidden, as if embarrassed about reading it. It was just like he was too embarrassed to admit his favorite movie was "L.A. Confidential" - was he afraid this cut into his tough guy image somehow? Neither of these things were considered "wimpy"; if anything, it showed he actually had very good taste, fashion sense aside. Perhaps they were just more things he found frightening about himself because he didn't understand them.  
  
There was a sharply creased piece of note paper resting on the center of the bed. Even before he maneuvered over to the side of the bed and picked it up, he had a bad feeling about it. Xavier told himself it could be anything, a "sorry about telling you to go fuck yourself" note ( okay, that was unlikely ), or just a note saying where he went and when he may be back.  
  
But it said neither of those things. It read, in Logan's sharply angular script, in black ballpoint ink: "Gone off with an old friend to fix a problem. Don't come after me."  
  
Xavier stared at the note a long time, hoping there was something he was missing between the lines. But there wasn't, was there? He wanted to believe it was Marcus, but Marcus had left long before Logan returned late last night, and while a good friend, he was hardly an old friend.  
  
Had he blown it? Had he played this all so very badly that he had lost Logan too? Xavier mentally cursed himself as a fool. The problem with being such a natural telepath was sometimes you assumed you could predict people's behavior to the letter, just because you could see their thoughts. But sometimes it wasn't as easy as all that, and people were capable of the most unpredictable things.  
  
There was a brief knock on the open door, and Rogue began, "Logan? We were - " She paused as she saw it was him and not Logan in the room. Xavier turned to find Bobby was also there, standing behind her and looking around Logan's room curiously. He'd figured Logan's room would be something of a bachelor's paradise, maybe with a pyramid of empty beer cans, or pictures of centerfolds on the wall, or at least a weight set, which would explain his muscles. He was slightly disappointed to see it was not only just a room but an empty one, devoid of any personal artifacts whatsoever ( except for Beowulf, but Bobby couldn't see that from where he was standing ).  
  
"Oh, Professor," Rogue said, sounding ever so slightly suspicious. She didn't know why he was in Logan's room, but she immediately assumed it was bad news. He had to give her points for being amazingly perceptive, but then again, she had absorbed Logan twice; she probably knew him better than any of them. "We were looking for Logan. Do you know where he is?"  
  
"He's gone," he told her somberly, aiming his wheelchair towards the door.  
  
"Gone?" She repeated. Not shocked, just wondering if he meant off the grounds or out of the city.  
  
When he was close enough, he handed her the note, figuring that Logan didn't just leave it for him; he left it for all. "He's gone back to the Organization."  
  
Logan had chosen his side. God help them all if he decided he was finally home at last.  
  
***  
  
The End (?) 


End file.
